There's Something About England
by SomethingSimsy
Summary: When America goes searching for a missing England, he finds a fragile, amnesic child. When America starts to doubt everyone around him, he calls them crazy. When America discovers he is no longer in twenty-first century England and his only chance of an explanation has left him for dead, he sets out to find him. Can America make it in time, if time still exists? – Chibi / Chibirisu
1. Chapter 1: England's Youth

**Note: The writing style is more basic in this chapter due to the fact it is supposed to reflect England's age. Please dwell on this factor throughout the course of this entire chapter and story.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters presented in this fanfiction or Hetalia**

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England wasn't quite sure what was happening. But whatever it was, it was bad.

To start it all off, he had woken up in a strange place – it definitely wasn't the place he snuggled up to and went to sleep in, that's for sure. Instead of a soft patch of grass he was sure he drifted off into whilst hunting for wild berries, he had sunk into a soft mattress, cocooned in a thick, floral duvet. Not only that, but for some reason his arms and legs were tangled in what looked like thin, striped sheets, which reached all the way to the end of the bed. That _was _strange to say the least, and England couldn't have thought anything else.

England wiggled out of the striped sheets and grabbed the closest thing to him – what appeared to be some kind of tunic or dress with buttons running down to the bottom when he held it up to his body – and wrapped it around himself like a cape. He then peered over the edge of the bed – the dramatic drop startled him, sure, but he was never one to be fearful over something so trivial – and jumped off, landing in a pile on the floor. England, however, quickly picked himself up, only to find he was rather unclothed other than his new cape. But that minor factor wouldn't deter him, not the almighty England! So he set off, toddling towards the door like a small child, opening it with all his might and braving the hallway of wherever he had ended up. _Look out, world; England is here to stay._

However, England wasn't expecting what happened next.

"England?" someone called from somewhere below him. There was a loud series of bangs, and England jumped, all of his breath immediately catching in his throat. Okay, maybe England wasn't as brave as he thought he was – but this was a pretty scary situation!

"Uh, England, you were supposed to be at the meeting _ages _ago, so get your butt out here!" the voice called again. It was all just a stream of gargled, gagged and strange sounds being blended together as far as England was concerned; he recognised a few of the sounds, mainly his name, but used in that order? It was unheard of! Whoever was at the door must have _really _been strange.

England could just make out the sound of something breathing heavily before a firmer, louder tone was taken by the previously doubtful voice. "Okay then, if you won't open up, I'll just have to use your spare key."

There was a silence, a silence so deathly to England that when the sound of metal churning and turning broke through the air and a loud bang, he ran, not taking a second glance.

"England? Are you _really _still asleep, and you complain at _me?_" the voice shouted through the house to seemingly thin air.

England didn't even falter at the horrendous sound of his name booming through every crevice of the house. He continued running, bolting for his life as fast as his legs would carry him, his eyes frantically searching for somewhere, _anywhere_, he could hide! He was unarmed, barely clothed, completely defenceless– he couldn't face off whatever monster was downstairs, and if he did, he certainly wouldn't be the one alive by the end of it!

"Well, okay then, I'm coming up there, I guess." the voice shouted. All too quickly after, England could hear wood creak, and then he assumed the worse – the stranger was coming towards him, _for _him, and he had nowhere to hide. _England's dead meat._

Through his heavy panting, England found some sense. He jumped on the nearest door, bouncing up and down until he grabbed a hold of the door handle in his shaken state. He yanked the door open and pulled it shut behind him, doing his best to make as little sound as possible whilst still being as fast as a thunder storm. That is to say, despite his efforts, he had failed _massively. _

"England?" the voice called again, the creaking of the wood finally ceasing. "So you _did _hear me, huh? You're such an ass; if you wanted to ignore me you could at least let me know you're not dead! Actually, I suppose that wouldn't be that bad... _are_ you dead?"

Out of the language the English nation could understand, this frightened him the most. So the stranger wanted him dead?_ Dead? _He didn't stand a chance, did he? He was defenceless, unarmed and naked as one could possibly be, and now the stranger was just itching for a confrontation, too? It really was just his lucky day, wasn't it?

England would have to work fast if he were to come out of this one alive! He surveyed his surroundings; it wasn't his natural environment, but that didn't stop him from having one of the keenest eyes in the whole world!

England pushed himself up onto a strange contraption; it was white and shiny so hard to grab onto, but he managed it. From there he could reach something; he wasn't really sure what it was, but it had a thin handle painted in a strange pastel colour and a forest of white bristles at the end of it, poking out one side. Beside it, England could see a large set of shiny drapes, dangling from quite a height. It was then that he knew, for the first time, that he would come out of this fight _alive. _

One leap was all it took. England pushed himself up again onto the side of something attached to the wall, gripping onto the shiny white surface for dear life. But he slipped. With a small yelp, he fell forward, sliding into the dipped basin like a penguin in a glacier. But this was fine; he could still reach what he wanted, couldn't he?

Armed with a toothbrush, England reached up and put it over the side of the sink, propelling himself up like he was climbing an almighty mountain. Once both of his arms were dangling over the side, England reached forward once again, waving his hand in the air in hope of finally getting a hold on that damn shiny set of curtains!

But then everything went all too _damn _wrong.

"England?" the voice from before shouted again, and before England could even process what this meant for him, the door slammed open. "_England?_"

"Halt!" England shouted as loud as he could, throwing the toothbrush in the direction of the voice. With one hand he wrapped his cape around his body like a shield and with the other he covered his eyes, cowering behind it. He heard the sound of his plastic weapon hitting something dense, like the wooden door he passed through. Then he could hear it clattering against the tiled floor lifelessly, the meek sounds echoing off the walls.

Well, England was certainly going to be this stranger's meal now.

But the stranger didn't reply, didn't even move, didn't even _breathe. _England uncovered his eyes, lowering his arm slowly, to see a pair of widened blue eyes staring at him dead-on in horror, the stranger's mouth quivering slightly as it searched for something to say, _anything_, but found it all too impossible.

England stared back in horror as well, fear evident in his eyes, his tiny body shaking frailly. "What... what are you going to do to me?" he asked, recoiling slightly behind the curved walls of the sink.

"W-what have you done to _yourself?_" the stranger almost shouted, their eyes running England up and down.

"Stay away!" England shouted, puffing out his chest in an attempt to look intimidating like a wild bear.

"What?" the stranger muttered, more to himself than anyone, before approaching the sink without a care in the world. "What...?"

"Stay away!" England repeated, backing away until his bare bottom pressed up against the back of the cold basin. "I'm warning you, stranger!"

The ambusher halted in their tracks. "Stranger...?" he repeated, staring England deep in the eyes, searching for something. He ended up empty handed – all he was faced with was pure fear, pure confusion, yet no recognition whatsoever.

"What do you want with me?" England repeated, deflating slightly. "What do I have to offer you?"

The other didn't seem to register what England said for a moment, not enough to form a reply. Something was definitely wrong. "You... you... what is... what did you do, England? Why don't you know who I am?"

England was becoming more and more frightened. "Well, who _are _you?"

"I'm... America, the country you raised." the man, newly dubbed 'America', replied surprisingly shakily, taking a step towards the now shrunk England. "You need to go to the world meeting today, as scheduled by you."

"What are you talking about?" England snapped back, his voice wavering as he tried to mask the need to cry his heart out. "That's not a country, and h-how could I have _raised _you when I'm just a child, what are you babbling about? What world meeting, what _is_ this?"

"You... you really don't remember?" America asked, reaching his hand out as he debated between getting any closer to the English imposter.

"Remember _what? _Where am I?" England blurted out, panic rising in him. "Just tell me what's going on!"

"You're England, the fully grown adult nation of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and somehow you've ended up making yourself a kid." America said, scratching at his face absentmindedly as he watched England's tiny body recoil in horror. "Welcome to the twenty-first century."

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**This marks the end of chapter 1 of **_**There's Something About England**_**, folks. This is one of those "chibi-nation" stories, but do not be fooled – is something going on here that isn't just fluff-mania-madness? Possibly (the answer is 99% yes)... read on to find out more about what that something is... see you next time (that's all up to you). **


	2. Chapter 2: England's Fear

**Warning:**** at the end of this chapter, there is non-explicit description of a physical stab wound (it isn't gory or overly violent, don't worry)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters presented in this fanfiction or Hetalia**

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"You... you can't be serious," England muttered, his brow furrowing as he tried to process what all of this insanity-spewing 'America' meant, "you must be lying."

"Trust me, lil' dude, I'm _not _lying," America replied, staring down at the baby-fied nation before him, "I do hate you and all, but this? This is just embarrassing."

England's brow furrowed further but for another reason than confusion entirely. "Well I hate you too, Amewica."

America laughed, must to England's confusion. "Err, _no_, it's Ame_ri_ca, not Ame_wi_ca. You got everything else right! Jeez," America huffed, "kids."

"The only one who is acting like a child here is you!" England retorted, making sure to drop any baby blabber he may have been forced to drool out. "Maybe if you spoke clearly like a grownup I would understand you better!" A rather childish pout formed on his face.

"I doubt that." America sighed, and his expression didn't change when a tune came from his pocket. He pulled out a small device and brought it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Hello, America," France answered on the other line, grabbing the rest of the meeting room's occupant's attentions, "how is your search for England going?"

"Hi, France. My search for England?" America repeated absentmindedly; the widening grass-green eyes of the foot-tall child grabbed his attention.

"Yes, your search for England." France repeated, slightly worriedly. "Have you found him? What is the situation?"

"He..." America said, his eyes never leaving the blonde toddler, searching, thinking. Something was compelling him to not say, what he could only describe as, the whole truth. "I'm not sure what to say about it."

France's brow furrowed. "What do you mean? Do you need help?"

America seemed to consider this, but he shook his head from side to side involuntarily. "Err, I mean, no, everything's fine. I've found him; I just don't think he can make it back, as all."

"Why not? Is... is he hurt?" Francis muttered, panic rising in his voice.

"Don't act so grave! He's fine, okay? He's just a lil'... ill." America improvised.

"Ill?" France murmured back, a frown replacing his previous saddened face. There was a sense of urgency in his newly taken tone. "In what way?"

America frowned slightly. "The normal way?"

France went deathly silent.

"Anyway," America continued, "he's fine, I'm fine, I'll take care of him _perfectly_, so don't worry and get on with the meeting without me. I've left my notes and stuff there already so you can just read them or something, and England... well, as I said, he wouldn't be able to really participate, anyway."

"I see... well, goodbye then, America. Call me if anything... else happens, and don't do a single thing first." France muttered over the line, bringing his phone away from his mouth and ending the call.

"Bye–" America said but was shortly cut off. "Oh, he hung up." He put his phone away in his pocket again. "That was weird. So, now to deal with you."

"France?" England muttered, staring up to America with a strange look in his eyes. "What about France?"

"Huh?" America noted England's tiny clenched fists. "Dude, calm down. There's nothing to be–"

"Are you a friend or are you an enemy?" England asked suddenly.

"What? A friend or an enemy, huh?" America muttered to himself, his eyes wandering to the door, the only escape that was left ajar. "I... I think I'm a friend."

"And are you a trustworthy friend?" England muttered, his eyes darting between the man and the space between the door and his freedom.

America also remained silent for a time. "For the most part."

"I see..." England commented, his gaze settling over the small slither of the outside world visible longer than it had before. "And... if I were to leave?"

"I'm not sure," America replied suddenly, his blank gaze settling over the child before he let a warm smile enlighten his face, "but you're an important kid. That would be pretty bad."

"I see." England commented again, but on this occasion sounding more sure, his decision more well-thought. "Well then, strange nation, I need to be taken to the forest. How far is it from here?"

"The forest?" America's brow furrowed slightly and he pouted. "Why would you need to go there?"

England huffed. "That's none of your business! Just tell me how to get there."

"I suppose I could," America said, closing the gap between him and England before he leaned forward, much to England's squawking protests, "well, if I'm going to show you where it is I gotta take you there, don't I?"

England stopped his wiggling and fidgeting as he considered this information. He nodded, eyeing America's nearing hands, and raised his arms obediently. America smiled brightly, hoisting the little toddler up by the underarms and bringing him to his chest, clutching his whole body with one protective arm to him. He used his other arm to open the door fully, enough so that he and his little one could walk free, unknowingly heading in the direction directly against France's orders. How foolish that was.

"So the forest, huh?" America said absently, filling the silence that had settled between him and the small child he held in his arm. "You're not going to tell me why you want to go there?"

The child pouted with a huff. "Why do you think? I'm going hunting! Although, I don't know where my bow and arrow has got to... do you happen to know?"

"'Bow and arrow'...?" America repeated, stopping midway in his tracks. But he quickly righted himself, carrying on his trek down the hallway. "Maybe you still have them in your attic? You have a lot of stuff from your past... I mean, future in there."

England narrowed his eyes. _I don't trust you_, he thought, opting to keep his mouth shut over the favour of _not _being possibly diced and slaughtered by the beast that carried him. "Take me there." he finally settled on saying.

"Okay." America responded, taking a turn in the hallway, smiling smugly to himself as he let his thoughts wander deviously, _What this pensioner must have in his attic..._

_I'll shoot that smirk off of your face, you beast_, England thought with a furrowed brow and pouted lips, his eyes turning into slits as he tried his best efforts to show just how untrusting he really was. However, it all went seemingly unnoticed by the buffoon carrying him. _Fool. _

"Well, we're here." America said, setting the child down on the floor from his arms. He reached upwards, getting a good grip on a hatch and yanked it down, the large, rectangular flap falling from the ceiling and a ladder rolling out in perfect sequence. He stabled the ladder, pulling it out until it touched the carpeted floor and slammed his foot firmly on the first step. "So, you coming up?"

England looked bemused. "Okay." he said, taking a few steps forward and following America up the ladder on his hands and feet like a wild animal.

America climbed over the edge of the top, reaching his arms out wide and far to grab hold of the tiny toddler by the sides, heaving him up despite his wiggles and squiggles of protest. "Let me get hold of you, do you _want _me to drop you?" The squirming soon stopped.

"So, America," England said once he had been lowered to his bare feet, patting out the creases in his short stripe shirt-cape, wandering a safe distance away from the open hatch, "where do you suppose my supplies are, presuming you took them from me?"

America stopped midway in his tracks to a particularly high set of stacked boxes. "Why would I take them from you?" he asked, his brow furrowing slightly, before he quickly shook the expression off. "Hey, here's a few of your boxes – I'll get them down for you."

"Okay then." England complied, waddling towards the mountain of cardboard boxes that was being spread around the spacious attic until each box looked like a different piece in a complex game of chess. "Which one are they in?"

America shrugged his shoulders as he continued rummaging through one of the boxes. "No idea little dude – take a look in them yourself, I'm busy."

"Yeah, rooting through _my _stuff!" England hissed but shuffled towards one of the boxes anyway, peering over the tall edges and flaps. "Will you... will you help me... America?"

"Huh?" America looked over his shoulder, staring down at the tiny child with raised eyebrows. "You say somethin'?"

England cleared his throat. "Yes, I–"

"I'm sure it's not important," America said as he turned his head away again, his eyes searching through the piles of junk in each box, "hey, you wanna help me? I could use some–"

"Hey!" England shouted, trying his very best to be intimidating but his high-pitched squeaky voice betrayed him. "I don't know what you think you're doing, America, but I need some help here!"

"Sheesh!" America whined, rolling his eyes as he trudged over to the ruler-high child, getting on his knees at a few inches above eye-level. "You sure have a temper, don't'cha grouchy?"

England launched himself at America with a strangled cry but America stepped up and walked out of the way, moving around the small pile of England that now lied face-down on the dusty floorboards in favour of finally finding his baby-gear. England let out a huff, picking himself up painfully from the dirt and rubbing at his scratched, bare knees.

America, meanwhile, was none the wiser to the calamity behind him, because his attention was elsewhere entirely. In one hand he was holding a tiny, dress-like garment that looked like a barely proportioned bed sheet, and a similar-sized black cloak that looked like it could easily belong to a doll was dangling lifelessly, scrunched up and forming rolls, from his other hand. "Is _this _what you're looking for?"

"Yes," England nodded with a slight frown, pacing towards America and snatching the garments from his hands as soon as he could get a hold on them, "and my weaponry?"

"Err, I _guess _this is it?" America asked as he reached into the box and pulled out a leather satchel, a set of sticks with shaped spearheads stuck to the end peeking out of the hearty material. With it was a curved stick, clearly carved from the small etchings in the wood, with a thin wire connecting the two ends. "Looks like a bunch of toys if you ask me."

England stuttered out unintelligible sounds as he tried to contain his outrage. "W-well, nobody _did _ask you, did they?" he raged as he snatched the satchel away, getting a firm hold on the clothes and weapons he held to his chest.

England quickly shot America a look and ran away, hiding behind one of the boxes. He pulled his striped cloak over his head and replaced it with his white dress, bringing his thick, black cloak to his neck and tying a set of strings together in a tight knot, keeping it secure as the worn ends dragged the floor. He fished around in the satchel until he found a small pair of boots, which he slipped his feet into, wiggling his toes until they felt just right. Finally, he slung the satchel over his neck and shoulder, as he did with the bow, securing it in just the right place that he could reach behind his back and launch a full-fledged arrow attack in a split second. It was _perfect. _

England stepped away from his solitude, edging towards America as he gave the ends of his hunting outfit one last tug. "Well I'm leaving, then!"

"Have fun with that, dude!" America exclaimed with a beaming smile. "No idea how you're gonna get down the ladder, though..." he muttered as he watched England stomp away, sulking in his usual, terrible mood, one that apparently still haunted him in his childhood.

"Help me then!" England snapped, waiting impatiently by the hatch as he began to tap his foot irritably on the wooden flooring. "Well?"

"Yeah, yeah." America sighed, getting on his knees in front of England.

England raised a bushy eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Well get on, _obviously_," he sighed again, looking back at the blonde child with a lopsided smile, though there was obvious disappointment behind the half-hearted cheerful look, "can't have you falling down the stairs and dying now, huh?"

England grumbled. "I guess not..." With some hesitation he jumped up, latching himself onto America's sides and burying his face into his jacket for extra protection. "Go on, then." he mumbled into the fabric, the heat from his body tinting his cheeks a rosy red.

America descended the ladder, occasionally getting yelled at with "Idiot, you nearly knocked my head clean off!" with a few grumbles and whines in reply.

Once they reached the last step, America tucked the ladder back up, England swinging around on America's back for dear life until he finally locked the latch up to perfection. He wiped his forehead with his arm, raking a hand through this hair, and smiled at the job well done. He knelt down and let a dazed little England off of his shoulders, where he stumbled off, falling backwards until he fell with a loud thump onto his bottom.

It was a shame what happened next. They were finally falling into a comfortable routine.

"Hello?" America called into his phone that he held up to his ear, the device finally ceasing its ringing.

Little did they know it was a lifesaving move in the grand game they played.

"America? Ah, America, hello, I have _finally_ got hold of you, I thought something was seriously wrong!" breathed a voice through the speaker. "Nothing... nothing is seriously wrong, is it?"

America kept quiet for a long second, his brow furrowing. "Uh, yeah, no problem. But I didn't get any other calls from you, France, not since the last one, and... why do you wanna know?"

America could almost hear the pain of how much France was struggling to say something. "Yes, I... couldn't get hold of you. I'm calling to ask you if everything is okay with you and England, because... is everything okay?"

America wanted to laugh, but found his mouth feeling uncharacteristically dry. "Y-yeah, I'm fine, and so is England if that is what you want to know... why are you asking me this _again?_"

"Yes, yes, I have asked you before..." France's voice drifted off as he struggled for something to say, the silence drifting between the two lines becoming so strangely tense you could drive a knife through it and not make a single incision. "I just wanted to check on you two."

"Are you feeling alright?" America asked suddenly. "You seem a little... spacey."

"Oh, yes..." Francis spoke drearily, more so than he ever had before to America. "You see, America, I think something might be wrong..."

"Wrong?" America repeated, his frown darkening as he tried to wrap his head around the situation. "What _kind _of wrong?"

France laughed dully. "Didn't I ask you the same thing earlier?"

America paused. "Are you _sure _you're okay?"

"Yes, yes, _I'm_ fine." France suddenly livened, dismissively waving America away. _If only you could wave _that _feeling away_, France suddenly thought, groaning lightly as he, too, tried to shake the thoughts. "If there really is nothing wrong, then... but... are you sure nothing is wrong with England? If something is wrong, I really need to know."

"I told you already, he's sick!"

"But is it just a cold? It is very important you tell me, because–"

"That sounds about right to me."

Francis sighed. "Okay then, America, thank you for informing me. Now, I just–"

_Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee–_

"Oh, line must have gone dead." America muttered as he shrugged his shoulders, sliding his phone into his trouser pocket. "_Anyway_, now _that _is over with, didn't you want something?"

England's scowl visibly darkened. "_Yes_, I wanted to go into the forest, you dimwit."

"Oh yeah," America said to himself, scratching at his head, "let's go then."

America turned on his heels, walking down the hallway with a small toddling England following him several steps behind, who had started to trot and then gallop as he tried to force his little legs to keep up with America's large strides.

America started to walk down the stairs, leaving England to cry out quietly as his taller guide continued walking away, not maliciously, but instead completely obliviously. England huffed to himself and let a scowl darken his sweet, innocent face, sitting on the edge at the top of the staircase and lowering himself down onto his bottom on the next step, as if he was abseiling down a mountain.

Once England had lowered himself a good two thirds down the long flight of stairs, he jumped forwards like a spring, landing on his feet on the firm wooden floor with his hands outstretched in front of him. He quickly righted himself. He hurriedly dusted himself off and started to run, calling "_America!_" over and over as loud as his lungs and high-pitched squeak of a voice would let him.

He was preparing himself to rant and lecture the, what he imagined was, older man, but stopped with a surprised intake of breath as he took in the sight in front of him.

"What in hell...?" America muttered as he forced his unblinking eyes even wider, trying to take in all of what was in front of him in the blink of an eye. He barely noticed the halting slap of footsteps on the wooden floor behind him, or the quieter ones that grew nearer to him. It took him a while even to notice the light tug on his trouser leg.

"Can we leave, now? You do know the way, don't you?" England questioned, forcing an even harder tug on America's trouser leg as the man remained unresponsive, as if he wasn't in the same dimension as England at all. It was as if England wasn't even worth his time, a pointless entity in his quest for something else.

Come to think of it, England hadn't even asked the man how or why he entered and broke the house he was staying in – didn't he mention something about killing him? Or, perhaps, America could have put him in the room he awoke in, tucked him into the duvet he was snuggled up to; England had no idea why, though. It must have just been another ploy, just another cunning strike to slaughter him.

"Eh... England..." America breathed. He took his glasses absorbedly off of his face, rubbed at the lenses with his shirt and putting them back on, blinking behind the glass that he saw straight through, as clear as day. "W-what...?"

Come to think of it, England had never received much of a reply as to how much of a friend America really was; England knew he himself was a powerful nation, growing rapidly – soon to be the size of the world itself, he thought – so it would only make sense if this stranger, the one self-dubbed 'America', would try to take him, try to lull him into a sense of security.

It would only make sense for this stranger to tuck him up and keep him chained to this house, confined to the very walls and subjected to a startling sense of amnesia. Strange feelings of knowledge had been slipping in and out of his unconscious conscious since he first woke up, knocking him about like a sea-lulled boat destined for wreckage. But England had had enough.

England looked out to where he was standing; in front of him was an open window, the light curtains catching in the breeze and flying as free as a bird. England couldn't see much beyond the glass, though – America was tall and sturdy, leaning on the countertop just in front of the window as if it could hold him up forever, support the weight of the earth. Behind him was a small set of a table and chairs, one of which was pulled out slightly, the backrest stretching up to another countertop, the cushy seat high enough for England to climb on. So, he did.

England clambered up onto the chair seat, his arms then reaching out for the wooden backrest which he tightly clutched, pulling himself up on it for dear life.

"England..." America breathed again, his voice a lot more composed, steadier this time. England joined him, crawling all the way along the row of conjoined countertops until he sat on his bottom next to America's hands which had a firm grip on the edge of the counter, his knuckles turning a ghostly white. "What... what have you _done?_"

"Done?" England questioned with a furrowed brow. He pulled himself to his feet and carefully treaded over to the open window, looking onto the outside that sprawled out in front of him, spreading for miles beyond his vision. England was hardly surprised; nothing was out of place, was it? "What is wrong?"

America didn't force a reply, and England scanned the land again, searching for any anomalies. Green upon green rolled into the distance for miles, thick and thin grass gracing the land that was dotted with freshly coloured trees and bushes, colourful flowers blooming in all random corners of the plains. "What is out of place?"

"England... you can't..." America mumbled, his eyes searching for something, _anything_, on the rolling grassland, just searching for a sign that it wasn't all just a big _joke. _

America turned to the bored-eyed England, his brows knitting together in a rare surge of anger at the small child, disbelief, _fear._

America prepared himself to shout, gripping the small boy tightly by the shoulders and forcing him to face him dead in the eyes, causing the child to freeze in fear. England's eyes were so wide they were the exact same shape as the sun that reflected in them through the open window, just centimetres away."_What did you do?_"

England kept his mouth clamped shut, but something inside of him told him to fight back. "What _did _I do? _What _are you talking about?"

America was starting to feel his blood run cold. "You... _you don't know?_"

"_I just told you that, didn't I?_" England shouted, trying to shake himself from America's iron grip. "Get _off _of me!"

"_No!_" America shouted back. "_No! _You're lying, aren't you? J-just tell me what's going on, okay? I need to know what's– _what are you doing?_"

England was struggling more frantically against America's grip, clawing at his hands and crying out for help. "G-get off of me! Leave me alone!"

America noticed the watery shine in England's eyes and released him, letting his hands rest on top of the counter again. "I–"

"_Get back!_"

"_Ah!_" America cried as he looked down at his hand.

A searing pain ran through his body. Blood rolled down his fingers, crimson pouring out of an incision. He tensed his finger's tendons; a blood-stained arrowhead shifted in his flesh, ripping at him endlessly. He let out another cry of pain and tried to meet the eyes of the small boy who he could hear heavily panting.

"I-I-I..." England stuttered, hyperventilating as he looked at what he did. _I did that to America...!_

England looked up, his eyes widening in pure fear and horror as he met America's pained blues.

England leaped to his feet and leaned dangerously over the window ledge. He didn't even allow himself a second thought as he leapt out and the hard ground came rushing up to him all too fast.

All air was sucked out of England's lungs as he was crushed into the ground with all the force of a war hammer, slamming him repeatedly into the cracked earth. He coughed violently, trying to force whatever had entered his lungs out whilst all the while begging his brain to just let some air _in _but he managed to control himself nonetheless.

Behind him he could hear no calls of _"England!"_ He _could _hear the sounds of movement, rolling and banging as cupboards were more than likely thrown open and drawers slammed shut, water running as America probably cleaned his wound, cries of pain as he probably tried to remove the deadly weapon England had imbedded in his hand.

Once again, England was alone.

Once again, England picked himself up from the dirt, dusted off his clothes and strode on, shakily but surely, in the direction of the forest he had been in yesterday. He was at home again, none of that _"welcome to the twenty-first century" _nonsense.

England was back in his time, finding his essence. England was roaming the open planes of the lands early days, just when villages and kingdoms were beginning to rise from the newly sown ground, and England was more than ready to reap the rewards. He would be a good country, he just knew it. Now all he needed was some food.

England smiled to himself, trying to fill his empty stomach with all the guilt of what he had just left behind him.

England wouldn't build his kingdom on guilt. England would build his kingdom on triumph, and he was just _rolling _in riches of that.

Wasn't he?

* * *

**I hope this somewhat set up some kind of hints (or may have explicitly told you a section of what is beyond the "America looks after baby England" fragment of this story) as to what is going on, and what **_**will **_**be going on later if you're still interested. **

**Goodbye for now! **


	3. Chapter 3: England's Age

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters presented in this fanfiction or Hetalia**

* * *

"That little...!" America shouted as he clutched his hand. "Damn it..." He'd need to change the fresh bandages soon. Crimson blood was starting to soak through, and he's even stitched the wound with all he could find, as well as sterilised it, but no matter what he seemed to do, the blood wouldn't stop flowing.

With a few pained noises, he managed to say more than just a few curses at the boy who had stabbed him. "Why... why would he do that?"

Of course, America did know why, at least part of the story. He probably scared England – he shouted at him, pushed at him, _hurt _him – who _wouldn't _be traumatised by that as a child? But, to actually stab someone, to temporarily maim him, it was horrific, unthinkable – England was a young _child_, for God's sake!

Granted, America didn't know much of how England would act as a child, he had no memory after all; he was probably frightened out of his wits! He must have just been startled, that's all! There was no way that England would have intentionally hurt him... was there?

England seemed to be delirious, confused; he thought that you had to go to the forest to go hunting, that you could just go around stabbing people, that you could just walk around town with a bow and arrow – _that _couldn't be legal. But, then again, America hadn't exactly ended up where he started off. Where even _was _he now? It seemed like the only person who would know would be England – but he was God knows where. So now, America was alone. England was alone. They were both all too _alone. _

America sighed to himself, massaging his wounded hand. "I... I need to..." America was lost, drowning in his thoughts, his speculations, but none of them would surface. "I... I need to know I'm not the only one..."

America pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it shakily in his hand, rapidly moving his fingers over the screen to the point they were a blur.

There was a ringing.

_Ring. _America studied the screen, his eyes shaking.

_Ring. _He jigged his leg. He drummed his fingers.

_Ring. _He looked away from the phone, out of the window absently. His entire focus was on the device he held in his sweaty palm.

The ringing stopped. A voice spoke instead. "_The number you are calling_–" America turned off his phone and slung it aside. He closed his eyes, releasing a bottled up sigh. He was tired. This was exhausting him. Had he ever been this exhausted before?

It was understandable, of course. America was alone, confused and a stranger to whatever world he had ended up in, and his only guide was somewhere out there. His only guide was alone, frightened out of their skin, and they _hated _America. It wasn't the first time he had felt it, but once again, in a different way yet so similarly, he felt the world was out to get him.

America brought himself to his feet, striding across the kitchen as if he was on a mission. Hell, he _was _on a mission – he was going to find England.

He picked up the bag he had taken with him when he first arrived that morning and started rooting through it, throwing things out and darting around England's house, packing himself new supplies. He threw in a large lunchbox which he packed with whatever food he could find in England's kitchen, as well as a few knives and forks for the rare occasion he needed them. In case he needed one of the items for not only eating. After all, England carried a bow and arrow and he was just an innocent child, wasn't he? Who would want to attack _him? _

Once he was certain he was ready, sending one last longing look at the only sense of modern civilisation America could see for miles, he strode through the front door with one hand by his side and one hand in his pocket, tucked hesitantly close to the small kitchen blade that was concealed in the fabric of his jacket. He felt ridiculous, foolish for doing it, but who really knew what he was to face only metres away from his only way back home?

That is to say, America had no idea.

England watched from the coverage of the trees that obscured his vision. He was tucked deep into the forest, stalking in a crouch-like stance between the tall grass and prickly bushes, stepping carefully around each thorn with his boots as elegantly as a deer. He neared a particular tree on the edge of the forest clearing. He pressed his stomach against it and poked his head around the deep-brown trunk, eyeing the spectacle before him with widening eyes.

He could see the building he came from. Despite all the odd furnishing choices he witnessed inside, the outside looked regular to him, typical of his time. But that wasn't what took his attention.

America, the man he had stabbed and ran away desperately from, strode out of the building, closing the door firmly behind him. He looked around, clearly startled, before he appeared to physically drag himself onto the green grassland before him. _He's coming for me_, England thought in his mind, making his stomach twist uncomfortably, _he's really coming to find me. _

England noticed America's hand shift in a pocket in his jacket, the tendons tighten on his arm as if he was gripping something, something slim like a kind of handle. And then it occurred to him.

England ran. He spared the action more thought than he had earlier that day, darting around each twig in the undergrowth and wincing every time he missed one, supplying an excruciating _snap. _His head snapped back every few seconds, searching for a flash of any blonde or blue in the fast-moving forest.

That America was sneaky, England was sure of it; he would lull you into his arms and snap your neck in your sleep! He was hiding in the forest somewhere, behind a tree, under a bush, right in front of him ready for ambush–

_Right in front of him ready for ambush. _

England snapped his head right back to his front and skidded to a halt, falling over himself and hitting the ground hard on his hands and knees. He could feel the dirt seeping into his graze wounds and he cried out, trying to silence himself as much as possible.

He hesitantly looked up.

Drowned in shadows, a shaded figure looked down at him, their eyes gleaming in the contrast of pure darkness engulfing them. Their eyes narrowed dangerously. "What are _you _doing 'ere?"

"This is my land," England tried to keep his voice steady, "isn't it?"

The figure stayed silent, seemingly processing the information. "Yes, I suppose it is your land," their voice was light, thoughtful, considering – considering the next card to be played, "only for _now._"

England's breath caught uneasily in his throat, but he mustered a growl, narrowing his eyes in return. "No," he stated as he rose to his feet, wincing as he tried to ignore the stinging on his knees and the ache in his joints, "it is mine _forever _more."

The other laughed easily. "And who will stop me from changing that? I am strong. I can fight for you. Are there any new competitors?"

America had heard noises; scurrying, running, _snapping. _He didn't know what was happening – it could have been a wild deer for all he knew – but he wouldn't chance it. What if it was England? And, in the off chance it really _was _him, what was he running from?

America didn't wait to find out why England was fleeing; he ran in on him running into something far more deadly. But it wasn't as if America knew that.

The shaded figure England had encountered sighed. "I suppose I misspoke."

England jolted, his head slowly turning to what the shaded figure eyed, and England's eyes widened in turn. The shaded figure's eyes were just as slit-like before, if not a bit more bored.

"So? Are you 'ere for the boy?" the figure said, tilting their head to the side.

America stared at them. He didn't want to believe what he thought he was about to find out. "Yes. Who are you? And... and what are you doing with England?"

The figure didn't know whether to laugh or to frown. "What do you think? I'm here for the same reason as you. You're accent is pretty strange, you must not know the customs." The figure shifted and something glinted in the low light of the forest; the sound of metal scraping followed shortly after. "Shall we say, _allow me to teach you?_"

America felt himself curl his hand tighter around the handle of the knife in his pocket that was soon becoming slick with sweat. "You... you can't be, can you? Just tell me you're–"

"What are you waiting for?" the figure asked, their body shifting but their blade never moving an inch. "Are you _scared?_"

"I'm not scared," America muttered as he clenched the blade more surely in his hand, "I'm not scared of you... France."

The figure stepped out of the low light, their golden hair immediately shining in the morning sun. "Boohoo, you're ruining all my fun. Aha, but it won't be any less fun doing _this._"

France lunged forward and grabbed England by the hood of his coat, hoisting him up in the air and almost choking him in the process as he dangled dangerously in France's one-handed grip. England clawed at his throat, growling viciously while he thrashed from side to side.

America ran forward, trying to grab the small choking child in his arms but France swung him out of the way.

"_What are you doing?_" America shouted. He lunged forward, trying to get a grasp on the boy that was now being swung around like a rag doll. "France!"

"What ever do you mean?" France said as he finally took the child to his chest, barring one arm across him like a fortress. France swung his sword in his other hand and pointed it just centimetres away from America's throat, a stern look of deadliness taking over his usually cheerful face. "I want the country – it's as good as mine, anyway, so you should just give up."

"Wha...?" America was too stunned to think properly. "You... but... but I was just calling you on my cell! Why are you suddenly... what's happened to you?"

France stared at America with his sword still held high, only lowering slightly so he could get a better look at him. "A '_cell_'? My, my, I'd like to know what's happened to _you. _You must be from a very strange place, with this 'cell' and your strange clothes and accent... yet, you speak English. Why do you speak English?"

America's thoughts were running a mile a minute. He forced his mouth to move as he kept his eyes trained on the razor-sharp sword just a split second away from slicing his throat. "I... I learned it from England..."

"England taught you a language?" France said, his head tilting slightly with the rise in pitch of his voice. His eyes lowered to the boy he held tightly to his chest, who glared back at him with reddened eyes and equally red blotchy cheeks. "Now that _is _impressive. But now you've turned your back on 'im, just trying to get 'is land. I can't say that's surprising; 'is brothers seem to do that a lot, too. Everyone, actually."

France's eyes remained trained on the uncomfortable boy below him, his gaze never lifting, and America saw his chance. He quickly pulled the knife out of his pocket and smashed it into the side of France's sword, knocking it away from his hand with brute strength alone.

France immediately looked up and ran toward his sword, trying to keep a hold on the bouncy and struggling boy he clutched onto with only one hand while reaching for his precious weapon with the other.

America ran quicker, lunging for the sword and whipping it around until it swung at France, slicing off locks of his hair. France growled in reply and took a tighter hold on the boy against his chest, digging his fists into the rolls of fabric that was his cloak.

"Let him go, France," America threatened with the sword, holding it firmly in front of France, "I don't want to hurt you. Whether you agree on it or not, we're allies, okay?"

France didn't falter, not even a little. "Oh, so you want to split the country?" he spat, dishevelled locks of his diced-up hair falling in front of his eyes. "Don't think I would, because I will not. I've had my sights on it for longer than the likes of _you._"

"This shouldn't be about that!" America shouted back in an attempt to be the loudest. "He's a living thing, you know!

"A country is a piece of land, resources," France muttered back, "there are people living there, that I agree on, only I 'ave more interest over my own people than 'is."

"But... but what about _him?_" America murmured back, his voice peaking with his frustration. "What about the lil' kid you're holding right now?"

France looked down at what he held in his arm. "This is just a representation for that all, like a figurehead. But I, you, we are also powerful, no? I may be still quite young, you may be quite naïve. We may be just representations, but we're stronger, better than... _this._"

America stuttered. "Y-you... you..."

There was a silence. Suddenly, laughter echoed through the forest.

America looked up, meeting the gaze of a laughing France, his eyes starting to crinkle along with his head tilting back slightly with the overbearing joy. "Are you serious? I am only joking! I lost interest taking any land off of _this_ awhile ago... for now, anyway. I thought it would be rather 'umorous to see if you tried to stop me. I suppose that makes you a lot more loyal than a lot of the people 'e knows... ah, yes, I don't think I ever caught your name."

America replied uneasily. "I'm America..."

France smiled. "Aha, _bonjour_, America. Where exactly are you from?"

"I'm from... another part of this world," America said, lowering the sword to his side but keeping a strong grip on it nonetheless, "it's not really near here."

"Mm, 'ow interesting. America, I will leave this boy 'ere now, but I will be watching over 'im." France said as he turned away, dropping the boy to the ground with a painful _thud. _"_Always _watching 'im. And now, America, I would like my sword."

America somewhat reluctantly handed the sword over and France swiftly took it from him, sliding it into a sheath.

France walked away into the depths of forest and the sound of another language – most likely French – was heard being shouted. A whole fleet of horse whinnies were heard after, followed by the pounding of their hooves on the grassy earth. Soon, the forest was left naturally quiet, the only sound interrupting the silence being the soothing calls of birds. Soon, the forest was strikingly alone, like some kind of buzz had got up and left in the blink of an eye.

America snapped back to reality and dropped his knife to the earth and jogged forward, leaning down until he was close enough to touch the small boy in a heap, tucked beneath patches of especially thick grass. "England, you okay?"

England didn't respond. The only sign he was alive was the slow rising of his back as he breathed in and out, trying to calm himself. America tried again, reaching a hand hesitantly for the child's shoulder. "England?"

England froze as America's fingers brushed him and his head shot up.

However, England slowly relaxed as his startled face softened to the familiar sight; however, it still wasn't a sight he could fully trust. "I'm sorry, America..."

America stared down at him, before he looked away, a slight frown settling over his features. "No, you did nothing, it was... why does he do that?"

"Do what?" England asked quietly.

"Torment you all the time. He seems to do it a lot..." America muttered.

It took England a long moment of consideration to answer; he was drowned in thought. "He does it because he can; there's no other reason, really."

America nodded.

England didn't want to say anything more, but something inside him urged him to continue, just to say a few more words. "America, you're fully grown, aren't you?"

America was taken a pinch by surprise, but he nodded nonetheless, starting to consider his answer himself.

"Okay." England replied weakly, considering what he could say next. He could trust this America, couldn't he? He couldn't and he knew it, but he was the only adult he could talk to and trusted enough _not _to kill him – he had saved him for a reason, hadn't he? _He saved you to kill you_, a voice inside of England's mind told him, but he shook his head, shaking away the idea. If he let the thought dwell any longer, he'd never open his mouth again to this man. "Something has been on my mind... something I think you would understand."

America nodded again, unsure if he liked the destination of the conversation.

England nodded in reply. His eyes fell to forest floor. "America... when you were my age, did you ever feel like you were growing up too quickly?"

America didn't respond at first, but he nodded slowly.

England waited a while before letting himself continue. "It feels as though this morning I was just a young baby, barely able to function for myself, toddling around trying to survive with my own two hands... I was confused, America. I had no idea where I was or what I was doing there. But then when you dropped in," _and you were about to kill me_, "I started functioning for myself, getting an initiative. All of that in the space of a morning... and then, now, I... is this what you experienced, America?" _Please tell me this is normal. I don't want to be alone, not any longer, not ever._

"Sort of," America said quietly, "I mean, I felt like I had to grow into an adult... in the space of a few years."

"I see," England replied softly as he picked himself up, sitting on the backs of his lower legs, "thank you, America."

America smiled back as warmly as he could. "Don't sweat it."

England smiled faintly back, too.

"Let's go, huh?" America said before he lifted England into the air, who obediently didn't rebel, and sat him onto his shoulders.

England wrapped his legs around America's neck lightly and wrapped his frail arms around the top of America's head, his golden hair ticking the small boy's pale skin. He then leaned forward and rested his head atop America's, breathing in the comforting scent of him and nuzzling his cheek into the soft strands that comforted him like a pillow.

America couldn't help himself from beam as he felt England's warm breath on him and his nose nudge locks of his hair from side to side.

America took a firm hold on England's legs and carefully stood up, balancing himself just right as to not disturb little England's peaceful state. He started strolling through the forest to nowhere in particular, content just feeling England's gentle hold on him and the movements of his chest slowly rising and falling against the back of his head.

England broke the peaceful silence. "How old are you, America?"

"A few hundred years," America replied with a smug smile, "so you better listen to me!"

"But I'm that old, too." England said with a frown and a slight pout as he began to think. "Why are you so much bigger?"

Something made America stop in his tracks, but he quickly continued walking again once he had realised his mistake. "I'm not sure, exactly. Y'know, back where I'm from, all the other nations say that I'm not wise or smart at all, really, but I think I've learned something from being around you."

England frowned. "And what's that?"

America smiled lightly. "We don't really age because of how old we are, I don't think. I mean, there's this one guy who is thousands of years old, but he doesn't even look thirty! And I'm nineteen, and you're twenty– I mean, erm, four or five, I guess? But we don't look so different, and I'm only a few hundred years older."

England's frown darkened. "And your point?"

America sighed dramatically. "My point is, England, that we age because of what we go through. You've been through some shit today and look at that, you've grown up already! And then there's me... well, I don't know, maybe I've aged because I have a lot of responsibility... you've gotta be pretty big and strong if you're one of the biggest guys on earth!"

"I hardly doubt you're the biggest country on earth," England muttered into America's hair, "nobody here has ever heard of you. Where do you live, anyway?" _And how did I get into that house from earlier? Also, why were _you _there? _

"I don't live around here, obviously," America laughed, "I live faraway. I'm only here right now because of the world summit... oh, right." America quickly deflated.

England's eyebrows knitted even closer together. "_What _world meeting? You have talked about this before, haven't you?" _Is that why you wanted to kill me? I don't know what I did..._

America nodded, unintentionally shaking England about and making him cry out. "Yeah, well, it's a long story, I guess. Have you got into magic, yet?"

"Have I got _inside_ magic? _What _are you–?"

America quickly shook his head from side to side with a sigh, causing England to tighten his grip on America's head as he whimpered again. "No, I mean, just– never mind. _You're _the one who somehow transported us all back to whatever year this is!"

It was England's turn to shake his head. "I have done no such thing. _You _put me in that house – otherwise, I've been in the same place as always, let alone time... wait, so you're telling me that you _time travelled _here?"

America was about to nod, but something caught on his mind. "I... I told you that when I ran in on you in the bathroom. Do you really not remember that?"

England frowned, shaking his head more violently again. "_No_, that never happened. You never told me that."

America snorted. "Yes, I did."

England glared. "_No_, you didn't."

"Yes."

"No."

"_Yes._"

"_No._"

"Yes!"

"_No!_"

America groaned. "Dude, you're giving me a headache now. I told you that, get over it."

England growled. "_No_, that never happened. You're just losing your memory!"

"No... no, I'm not." America muttered with a frown, strangely losing his confidence halfway through.

"W-well, I'm not losing my memory, that's for sure!" England said with a huff and a pout, but he couldn't let a single thought escape his mind, _Am I? _

The two remained silent for the rest of their trip into the unknown, both of them outwardly pouting and scowling and muttering at the other, but the entire time, one irrational thought wouldn't escape their minds – _What am I forgetting?_

* * *

**Some fluffy make-ups and break-ups! What exactly each of them is forgetting will be explored next chapter, as it is quite vital. **

**Also, I plan on changing this cover photo – if you're reading this and it is no longer pink with a little bunny and bow-and-arrow heart on it, then, well, I've already changed it. (I might still keep a bunny in there, though, I find it too cute...)**

**I hope you are still interested, so for the time being, goodbye. **


	4. Chapter 4: England's Fight

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters presented in this fanfiction or Hetalia**

* * *

It was as the sun was setting that England awoke, finding that he had apparently fallen asleep, his eyes fluttering open blearily to the familiar forest engulfed in shades of yellow and orange light.

"America?" England mumbled, rubbing at his face and shaking his head, blinking his eyes into focus. He was met with an empty field of grass and towering trees; the empty forest he was so familiar to. "America?"

The sounds of movements England never noticed suddenly stopped. "England?" The child in question felt his blood run cold in his veins at the awful sound of his name booming through the trees like a distorted figure – but it was that voice. That all too awful, all too _familiar _voice. "_England!_"

The blonde child sucked in all his breath and crouched down to the earth beneath him, getting on all fours and surrounding himself in the cover of the grass. He peered between each green blade, trying to force his eyes to focus on what was making that noise, calling his name like that – however, it wasn't beyond him to already know.

"England! Hey, what're you hiding for?" the voice called into the forest, trying to hush their own new, bold movements as everything seemed to come to an abrupt stop.

England watched with widened eyes. Something glinted in the intense orange light, blinding him momentarily but the shine shifted, moving with the rotation of what appeared to be... _a blade. _England's weak arms shook as he struggled to support his own weight anymore. "Are you...?" the voice whispered mockingly and the sound of a twig snapping underfoot filled the air only once. It was one time too many. "Are you... _surprise!_"

Something tightened around England's ankle and his heart started racing ahead of him. "_Get off!_" England screamed as he cried out with no second thoughts, thrashing from side to side and managing to get the rough grip on him to fall to his foot as he was hoisted into the air. His hands reached out for anything to hold but no amount of flailing was helping his struggles – he was _helpless_, a lost cause.

"Ah, England, I've finally got you," the attacker roared with smug laughter, "so good to see you!"

"I seem to see you all too often!" England retaliated, glaring at the looming figure whilst his struggles died down as he started to lose feeling in his lower body. His head felt immensely heavy. "Why don't you just well leave? I'll win against you, you know!"

The ambusher pulled a toothy half smile, their gaze falling upon the widening eyes of the small child in his grasp. "As if, England – what is this _America _you speak of? I'm sure we could be friends; whatever it is probably as awesome as me!"

"Why would I tell_ you _that, you pig?" England snarled. His face was tingeing red from his fury, as well as the immense amount of blood that was starting to pool there like his head was a water pail. The rest of his skin drained all colour until it looked a chalky, sickly white.

"Ah, don't be so harsh on me!" The attacker laughed again, a cruel glint shining in their narrowing deep blue eyes. "Hey, if you don't fight me, this will be a lot easier."

England continued to struggle and the attacker only continued to hold them steady with some strain, but the attacker didn't let it get in the way of his pursuit. He threw England over his shoulder and held him steady with one strong hand, swishing his earth-brown cloak behind him as he proudly strode off.

As England beat his fists into his kidnapper's back and kicked his legs wildly, getting quite a few strong jabs in the attacker's jaw, the very attacker spoke with the same cocky, confident beam of a voice. "Detail me of this 'America', or I will drag you behind me right here and now."

"_Denmark?_"

The attacker's head snapped round, their ferocious smirk suddenly wiped clean off of their face. "Who's there?"

"Get away from the kid, Denmark."

The attacker stood bewildered in the middle of the forest clearing, his eyes searching around him, one hand firmly gripping into the stiff fabric of England's garments that dangled over his shoulder and the other hand moving towards his bladed weapon, one that was tucked threateningly into its sheath, only shifting with each stride he took since he had last drawn the blood-soaked blade – he might have to threaten England once again, after all, and whoever else questioned him. "What do you want?"

America stepped out of the shadows that consumed him, risking any tact for the sake of his heroics. "I want you to get off the kid," he said as he lifted his chin, squinting slightly from the glowing fade of the sunset light that reflected in his glasses, "so, you gonna do it, Denmark?"

Denmark laughed, tightening his grip on the warm body of the child hanging over his shoulder with no hesitation. "A challenge?" he said, his brow furrowing just a degree and his mouth twisting in a confident smirk that only curved one half of his lips. "Did you know that I am called the King of the North?"

America shook his head from side to side, his mouth reflecting the Dane's cocky grin. "Never heard of you, dude."

Denmark's brow furrowed just an angle further before it quickly retracted, his eyes closing as he unconsciously pulled his hand away from his sheath, animatedly waving it empty-handed in the air as he rambled. "You're an interesting child, aren't you? I think your courageous attitude may start to attach itself to me! But," he said, his eyes opening into slits before his hand darted to his sheath, his grip tightening like iron around the handle of the deadly weapon inside, "there is only room for one king in these lands."

"And it will be _me!_" England shouted over his shoulder as he twisted out of Denmark's grip, falling with a pained gasp to the ground and a sharp pain shot up his spine, but he had no time to waste. "Now, stay away from my lands, Viking!"

Denmark seemed mildly impressed, but not nearly enough as England hoped he would be. "I do not think that will happen, England." Denmark's hand shot to his weapon and he got a full grip on the wooden handle. "Will you fight me for it? I couldn't think of anything less worthy of me!"

Denmark heaved on his weapon and it flew into the open.

England didn't waver, but the very sight of the sharp edges made his blood run cold.

In Denmark's capable grip was a sturdy wooden pole, almost as tall as Denmark himself. Sticking out of one end on either side was a huge slab of a metal blade, angled and curved so that it could slash and hack with ease, the ripping and bludgeoning never ending, never faltering for even a second.

America stepped forward, his eyes darting between the defenceless child and the brute armed with an almighty battle axe. "H-hey, watch what you're doing with that..." he said, his words stumbling as he felt a cold sweat start to dampen his neck and plaster his hair to his face.

Denmark didn't falter, and neither did England.

England swung his arm behind him and pulled out his bow and an arrow, keeping his own weapon clutched tightly between his shaking hands that were slick with sweat. The arrow was lined perfectly, the wire on the bow stretched back so far that it was perfectly taut, like strings on a harp. The boy narrowed his eyes, his focus trained entirely on his attacker – Denmark – his thoughts for America pushed somewhere to the back of his mind as he continued to stare down the angle of the arrow, eyeing the sharp metal tip that was pointed straight at Denmark's head.

Once England trusted himself enough, he let his mouth do the talking. "Care to fight?"

Denmark didn't seem to even have to cross any trust barrier; he was a very straight to the point man. "Why _wouldn't _you want to battle me?"

"_No!_" America shouted suddenly, bravely jumping between the two.

_The battle went uninterrupted._

Denmark lowered his axe, the sharp blade cutting into the earth and leaving paper-thin incisions like a knife through butter.

_Denmark threw back his axe. _

England lowered his bow to the earth. The strain instantly withdrew from the taut wire and it went loose in his arms, the arrow dropping to the floor with little impact.

_England took a step back. _

It felt as though years upon years, decades upon decades, of life had been missed.

_Denmark hurtled it forward._

There was something oddly calming about the strange blonde traveller from the unknown location, uncertain time.

_England leapt back and released his hold on the arrow. _

Yet, amid all the pain the pair knew they were saved from, something was missing, like a part of them had simply vanished.

_The axe blade swung over England's head and diced up strands of his hair. _

Despite how safe America made England feel as he picked him up, taking him away from the dazed Dane who stood with his axe still lodged in the earth.

_The arrow shot past and grazed Denmark's arm, causing him to wince. _

Despite how admittedly reassuring America's strong arms were around England's frail body like a blanket, his broad back as the bed frame and his soft hair as the pillow. The bed felt all too cold, _far _too cold.

Why was something wrong, so very, very wrong?

"Come on, lil' guy, let's go." America said as he turned around, running away from the still stunned axe-wielder, England held awkwardly in his arms. "You know, you're getting really fat, England, I might just drop you!"

"I didn't even ask you to!" England snapped, huffing as he shifted positions. "But, anyway, you only found me this morning, you idiot! I haven't changed _that _much!"

America frowned and paused. He looked down at himself.

England was sprawled out in his arms, and America put him down, noticing his discomfort. When his booted feet touched the ground, the boy's head came up to America's waist, a few inches higher, even. His once perfectly fitted clothes were now tight and short on his body, his dress-like gown and black cloak barely reaching the top of his thighs. America could only say he had barely noticed; when exactly did _that _happen?

America laughed slightly, merely to fill the strange air. "Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure you didn't even reach above my knee this morning!"

"Well you said that you age with experience. I suppose this one beating I was spared from made me stronger." England observed calmly into the empty air, but he quickly turned to America. "Thank you, America, I suppose you've made yourself useful for once. But I probably would have grown stronger if I had won that battle–"

"_Denmark?_"

America and England suddenly turned in the direction of the far-off sound, feeling as though time was oddly mimicking itself.

When there was a second's silence, America scoped the forest, peering through the line of trees. He spotted a flash of blond. "That sounds like..."

England continued, pushing himself up on tip-toes and darting his head about like a startled deer. "That's..."

"France!" Denmark yelled, swinging his axe wildly in the air.

"_Gah!_" France shrieked as he stumbled backwards into his horse, causing the creature to whinny and rear onto hind legs, taking small steps back.

"England's mine, I'm king, not you!" Denmark shouted as he steadied his heavy weapon, getting it into position to strike again.

France pushed himself up onto his horse's saddle and calmed the creature before drawing out a sharp sword. He pointed it at Denmark's head, just a single move away from ending it all. "Not just yet, Viking!"

Suddenly the two launched into battle, all-powerful axe's flying and swords swiftly slicing through the air. Their panting and heavy breaths were drowned under the yells and cries of their battle calls, the metallic ring of metal against metal echoing through the forest air.

Amid the panic, England seemed to regain his senses. "America, we have to leave!"

America barely flinched, but quickly shook his head and came to. "Y-yeah, let's go!"

Just as America awkwardly took England's smaller hand in his and they started to flee for their lives, there was an almighty, gut-wrenching cry of pain. The two froze in their steps, their heads snapping round and their eyes darting to the horrific and unbelievable scene in front of them. But what did they expect?

Bloodied and broken, France's and Denmark's armour was patchy in places, their breaths laboured as they shakily raised their weapons, or at least, one of them did.

France dropped his sword, falling off of his horse and straight to his knees on the hard ground, bringing his hands to his side where a deep gash ran, seeping blood.

"I... am... king..." Denmark breathed with difficulty, slowly putting away his axe. "You... you've lost, France..."

Without another word, Denmark left, dragging himself through the forest in hopes of winning England another day. But that was fine – Denmark didn't have competition, not anymore.

With a moment's startled hesitation, America moved forwards, looking over France's blood-soaked body with a gaping jaw. "Fra... France... Are you–?"

"_No!_" England screamed, running forward, looking over France's body. His eyes quickly darted to America, and the most indescribable amount of fear was deep in his eyes. "We have to _go_, _now!_"

"B-but France..." America said, not budging an inch despite England's droning in the background. "I know you hate the guy and I can't stand him half the time either, but he's _dying! _We can't just leave him here–"

England landed a surprisingly hard punch to America's stomach, causing America to stumble on his feet and clutch at his stomach as he doubled over, his body heaving. "He's trying to _kill me_ and that's all you can say?" England spat. His expression was incredibly dark, his eyes narrowed so dangerously he could have been a lion on the prowl.

"But look at the guy; he's just a kid, too!" America yelled as he eyed the slouching figure on the forest floor, the blood from his wound tainting the grass ungodly colours around him. "He's not even up to my shoulders – we can't just leave him here! Heck, I'm takin' him with me!"

As America moved forward and began to scoop France up, England tried not to let his frown wobble, tried not to let his voice crack as he spoke, "I suppose I... forgot who my real enemies are... I seem to forget a lot, d-don't I... I... A-America?"

America groaned and rolled his eyes whilst shaking his head, France's shoulders held tightly in his strong grasp, causing France to groan lightly. "Come on, Engla–"

"_No_, stay back!" England shouted as he took a few hurried stumbles back, his hand hesitantly reaching for his weapon on his back, his eyes running America and France up and down. "H-how long have you been in cohorts with _that?_"

"What...?" America breathed heavily as he frowned in thought, his lips pouting. "England, I think you're a little–"

"_No!_" England shouted again as he backed away, jolting with a start as his back hit a tree. He quickly regained himself. "You were talking about him... I can't remember where, and you never told me why, or how, b-but that doesn't matter!" With a pause, England breathed heavily through his mouth and he squeezed his eyes shut, opening them again, refusing to meet America's gaze. "I don't know if you're an enemy, but you're clearly not a friend, so–"

"_England_," America said sternly, his brow furrowing as he studied how England reacted to his newly-taken tone, "France asked me if you were _okay_; he doesn't want you dead! Not this France, at least..."

And that was all it took.

England pulled his bow and arrow out, shifting the aim of the sharp-headed arrow from America's hand to America's chest to America's head, directly between his widening, watchful eyes. England's face remained calm with anger, but the twitching of his mouth betrayed him – he delivered his speech nonetheless. "If you answer my questions, I won't shoot, only on the condition that you will not follow me, understood?"

America had no intentions to accept, but in the situation, he was running out of options. "Y-yeah... yeah, okay then, England. What... what do you wanna know?"

England lowered his bow slightly, still keeping the powerful weapon taut at his side. "I want to know how I ended up in that building, and what that building even is."

America found the answer quickly; it would be best for him to talk the truth, wouldn't' it? "It's your house, England. You were there... a few weeks before, the last time anyone checked. Why else would your old clothes be in there?"

England, however, was slightly slower to continue. "Why are they my _old _clothes? You talk about this twenty-first century, but I have yet to believe you. You seem to be the only one to know of this." _Because nobody checked on me for weeks_, England couldn't help himself from recite in his mind, the words cruelly playing over and over.

"_Yeah_," America said, "because I'm the only one here from the twenty-first century!"

"And why is that, America?" England asked, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side. His persisting never ceased. "I can't help but think you are lying. You're just here to kill me, what else? Take me like the rest of them; I suppose you found alliance in France. I didn't think he would be willing to share, no one seems to, but I suppose you're more generous than him."

America shook his head. "You accepted all of this as a little kid! Why are you being so stubborn now? Look, England, I'm telling you the truth! I _am_ from the twenty-first century! And somehow I ended up here with you in whatever-year after I was coming to find you for a world meeting and you were a little kid and you have no memory now and neither does anyone else and why can't you just remember and–"

The panging of the bow was all that filled America's ears.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tensed his whole body.

He waited for the pain, the searing, the stabbing.

The pain never came.

America opened his eyes, yelling in a panic as he stumbled backwards. A long stick poked out of France's shoulder, and the blood wouldn't stop pouring.

America looked up to meet England's eyes, expecting the same look of startle and panic and pure horror he saw when England stabbed him in the hand before – but there was nothing. England had his eyes shut tightly, his head turned away, his face scrunched up in a grimace.

England slowly eased his eyes open.

The child slowly uncurled his fingers from his wooden weapon, dropping the bow to the ground with a low _thud. _He regarded the scene in front of him with a wince as if the mere sight of it was stinging him. He spoke quietly, but his voice was loud enough in the deathly silent forest, "I always thought I would end him with p-pride... a fair game... b-but I suppose that was never supposed to happen in this life... you taught me that, America."

America wasn't really even listening. He felt a sting in his hand and then an intense burning, and he couldn't help himself from looking down at it. England, however, caught his gaze, too.

England put his hands up in defence, but what he was defending he wasn't quite sure of anymore. "No, A-America, that was an accident! I didn't stab you on purpose, I–!"

"England, _be quiet!_" America yelled, leaning down next to France and trying to strain his ears, listening to the faint words being murmured past France's lips. "Fran–"

"_London..._" France murmured, his eyes wandering in and out of focus as he felt himself start to momentarily slip away. "A... America, isn't it...?"

America nods, all the while ignoring the child a good distance away from him, the gap growing even wider as England spared the scene he was backing away from one last, longing look – then he bolted like the wind.

"America..." France tested the sounds as they rolled off of his tongue. "You... _London._"

America's eyebrows lowered slightly. "I... _London?_"

France paused and then nodded, his brow furrowing as he confirmed this, but the muscles quickly retracted as he strangely began to lose feeling in them. "Be prepared..."

America was dumbfounded. "'_Be prepared_'...? W-what is this, some kind of horror movie?"

France shook his head, wincing as the movement shook him all too violently despite his steady pace. "I do not know what you speak of... but, America... do as I say."

America didn't make any hasty movements, let alone hasty decisions. "Err... okay...?"

France didn't offer much of a reply; he nodded slowly, his gaze settling somewhere else, perhaps faraway. He spoke nonetheless. "If you wouldn't mind, could you get me on my horse? And... after that... well, America, after that you'll have to leave... _be prepared._"

America hesitantly lifted up France's damaged body and propped him up on his horse, which had amazingly stayed obedient the entire time. The horse almost immediately galloped off, disappearing into the thick trees, and America was left all alone once again, England pushed somewhere to the back of his mind as always.

America's mind suddenly flicked back to the image of France's – what he assumed – unconscious body. And if not, America didn't really want to wait around any longer to find out – he had always had a problem with beings of the after death.

As he ran away, America only shook his head to himself. Nations can't die, not like that! A single arrow to the shoulder and a beat up and down by Denmark is hardly going to finish you off... is it?

Once again, perhaps all too smartly, America didn't want to find out.

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**I'm sorry if characterisation is a little off; especially Denmark since I am not too familiar with him, but, to risk avoiding spoilers, it is important that he makes an appearance nonetheless. **

**I hope you can look over any mistakes, and as always, thank you for reading. **

**I will try and start replying to reviews because I could not be more grateful – you guys keep me motivated very much!**


	5. Chapter 5: England's Slate

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters presented in this fanfiction or Hetalia**

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There was no time to waste, not a single second. The desperate tone in France's usually cheerful voice made _that_ much clear when he started babbling about his half-dazed prophecy. So that is why that it was only when America was running through the forest, clutching onto his last breath, that he was starting to regret not asking for directions from the only person in the whole world who seemed to have any idea where London was at that moment. All in all, he was starting to feel like quite the false prophet.

He was also starting to regret not going to England's house to get some food because he was pretty sure he was just on the edge of starving. He was also starting to regret not getting a horse like France's because his feet were starting to _burn _and he was really starting to miss his Wild West days and with the ways things were going, he might as well have been in them!But most of all he was starting to _really _regret letting England run off to God knows where whilst he seemed pretty much on the verge of tears, or possibly already in them. Basically, pretty much _everything _a sane person would consider a sensible step in the right direction, America had failed at.

Right now, however, America was pretty sure he was running in the wrong direction _completely. _Where was he, exactly? As far as he could tell, he might as well have been in the middle of Scotland. Hell, any sense of direction at all might have been some use.

"Aw, hell," America muttered bitterly as he found his feet coming to a stop, his breath thickening as he leaned forward onto his knees, "running is _hard! _I used to be so quick, too... I guess it must be this _stupid _place, its draining all my energy. Damn England and his _damn _country..."

In the time it took him to get back his breath, America studied his settings. There was nothing but trees and distant villages and the wide starry sky (he really had hoped he would have made it out of the woods before the sunset, but he supposed that was only a spell of misjudged hope) and more trees. The scene looked familiar – all too familiar – and he was starting to reminisce back to his own childhood, but he quickly shook the thoughts away. Right then, America was somewhere _a lot _crazier and he didn't have the time to be dawdling.

Who knew what lurked in the forest of some distant time in England?

America never really found himself wanting to even let the answer to such a question slip into his mind.

He carried on running for who knows how long, dodging trees and random brambles and weaving in and out of the thick undergrowth and the patch of flowers he was sure he had passed five or six times already. To say the least, America was as lost as someone could be, and considering his situation, he wasn't just some ordinary tourist venturing a big, sprawling city.

America's situation was about to take yet another wrong turn as the man himself tucked himself behind a group of thick pine trees.

Wandering in the distance, beaten and bruised, was Denmark. He seemed to at least be in a bit of a better condition than before, no longer swaying on his feet like the drunkard he often seemed to be, but instead walking with a sense of clear direction into the deeper forest.

It was stupid and America knew it, but with no better option, he approached Denmark, the prospect of the axe-wielder only then just coming to mind – his knife lost in the forest some time ago, America was all but unarmed. It seemed the only nation legal in bearing arms was without them – but then America had to remind himself he wasn't in the present day any more.

With a sigh, America approached the slightly shorter Dane. "H-hey, Denmark–"

Denmark's head snapped around as well as his axe, America only just jumping out of the way with a startled yell as his eyes fell away from the confident Dane. "Ah, you again?"

"Y-yeah," America said, his eyes willing themselves back, "and _don't kill me because I helped you kill France and I can kill you too and I but I won't because I have a lot of guns and–_"

"'Guns'?"

America paused but quickly started nodding wildly. "Y-yeah! Now, if you could tell me where London is and give me a horse and–"

"Guns?" Denmark repeated. "Guns!"

"Err... yeah?" America answered shakily, but finally picked up on his mistake. With some thoughts to his words, he continued. "They're like a... well, it's a pretty powerful weapon–"

"I'm interested."

_Shit. _

America smiled, laughing nervously and all too loudly, but the Dane joined in, laughing even louder, and suddenly America started to wonder if they were having some kind of competition. "Y-yeah, well, I need to go to London and–"

"That can be arranged," Denmark beamed with a nod, looking at America with a hearty yet intimidating stare, "but if you give me a stock of guns and I get to test them."

America laughed nervously again, and this time, the Dane joined in with a sudden malicious sort of warp to it – or at least in America's subconscious. But that went ignored. "Sure! I guess you _are _a pretty awesome guy. Well, except you tried to kill England or whatever, but _anyway_, I... have some back at my house... you can probably find one if you go back that way–"

"Okay!" Denmark laughed, stepping towards America until he was practically so close he could touch him. "Well, show me the way!"

America let on a light frown, but the smile on his mouth quickly ate up the look. "Err, okay!"

And as America walked on, Denmark proudly following by his side, America couldn't help but think one thing: _Hey, wait, didn't France go off in the same direction England did... but on a horse that can easily outrun the defenceless kid...? _And the answer to that question was thought quickly after: _Oh fricking crap. _

England ran. He didn't really have much of a plan as for where he was going, what he was doing, anything, really. All he knew is that he had to get away from America; he was on France's side, and he couldn't risk another invasion, not with Denmark on the run, either!

Still, something felt strange, and the feeling wouldn't stop bothering England – as much as he didn't want to think about _him_, the crazy Dane seemed to feel pretty shocked as soon as Alfred separated the pair of them, too. However, England was fine with just passing it off as the remnants of the fear his invader had bestowed upon him having its hard time wearing off. England was a tough kid, and it seemed that the adrenaline pumping in his veins was being just as resilient as him.

But, despite England's unwillingness to listen, the voice in the back of his head was screeching at him that he had just ripped something away from himself all too soon. Something _important. _

England finally let his thoughts pass, wash away as free as the pond he found himself falling face-first into.

Involuntarily crying out, England squirmed, clawing his way out of the freezing water like a sodden cat, shaking itself off but still feeling the bitter cold cling. England wrapped his arms around himself, burying as much of his body as he could under his cloak that was now heavy and dripping with murky pond water.

Before long, England felt a shiver run up his spine, sending his whole body into a spell of shivers, the only sound in the forest apart from his constant shaking being the repetitive chatter of his teeth.

Before long, England was on the move again, his movements more amble as he made his way through the forest, a town he loved and knew so well ahead of him, just in the distance and a good half an hour's slow walking in the dark, midnight air, away.

Before long, England tensed as he heard the sound of splashing echo in the not-so distant sections of the forest he had passed, and if his memory served him correctly, the exact same direction of the pond he had stumbled into.

Before long, England recognised the sounds of the four close-together splashes and thumps of something hard on the soft grass-covered earth. He knew that sound; if it wasn't the pace, it was the whinnies and the all too human-like cries after it. And the only image he could think of in that moment was France, riding his horse with America keeping him securely under his wing. All England could imagine was the image of America smiling at the distraught face England would pull as he swooped him up, dangling him high in the air and claiming him his prize and his little property _forever more._

Before long, England was running, hot tears rolling off of his face as he sobbed and hiccupped into the freezing air, dragging along the ankle he was sure he had sprained.

The last thing England ever thought of before he was kicked to the cold, hard ground was America, the man he so difficultly trusted, stabbing his frail body in the back.

Before long, England's whole world went black with one last painful sob. _America... I thought..._

As a horse sped by, leading the way and barely even flinching when it felt something crash against its legs and fall to the side, it neared the city it was sure it was suppose to be coming to. With its rider somewhat unconscious on its back, staining the horse's once pristine coat a filthy red, it could really start to recall being in these open plains before. Whether it was the exact plains it galloped through then at the coldest of midnights or just a mirror to its childhood home, it didn't matter.

The horse knew where it was going, and even in the darkest of nights, it could see what would become London in just a minutes run away. Ignoring the weight of a bleeding France on its back, it couldn't help but adore the feeling of the wind through its mane.

If France _was _conscious, he would be screaming. _America... I thought..._

"And here we are!" America announced, standing with his chest stuck out and his hands on his hips. "So, just in there should be a gun..." _Not with any bullets, but still... _"So, Denmark, buddy, if you'll let me lead the way, I can–"

"Aha, no need, America, its open." Denmark said as he walked past the door, eyeing the extravagant and out-of-this-era hallway and the small peak of the living room and all the strange, modern contraptions he _really _shouldn't be seeing. "So... where is this 'gun'?"

"Erm, right!" America announced as he neared the attic, hoping on his life that England obscurely had a gun there. But a part of America, deep inside, told him it was a bad idea. But another part told him he was too late to turn back, not if he wanted to go to London and follow France's crazy words of advice. _Hmm_, America thought, climbing up the ladder to the attic with Denmark closely behind, _maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all..._

"So, it should be here." Denmark said as he eyed the abstract array of boxes littering the attic floor, some overturned, some with dates oddly enough in the future printed on them. "Where?"

"I'm getting to that, don't you worry!" America chuckled, but the laughter quickly faded away as his inner turmoil squirmed. _Oh God_, America thought as he started literally throwing things aside, _England has to have a gun, he has to!_ "Aha!"

Denmark turned, a bright smile adorning his face when a foreign object has put into his hands. America tried to laugh his growing nerves away as Denmark turned the contraption in his hands. America finally willed himself to speak. "Here, this is a... gun."

"How does it work?" Denmark asked simply, looking at the neon orange colours that were truthfully dimmed in the poor lighting of the attic – America couldn't risk letting electricity appear before Denmark's eyes.

America laughed, feeling a bit of his anxiety die on his tongue. "Well, with this brand of gun, _Nerf_, you just pull this bit here and you let go and the bullet shoots out and... yeah..."

Denmark looked confused for a split second before another beaming smile lighted his face. "Wonderful! Oh, and if you escape, the city you want is just north, like me!"

The smile on America's face quickly vanished when the end of the gun was pointed straight at his chest. America coughed, "Err... what you doing there, Denmark, buddy...?"

"Only weaklings use horses," Denmark said, confident grin _still _in place, "but I'll give you quick death."

"Erm..." America knew he had to think fast: _Come on, damn it, you know what to do! _"I don't think you will. I can shoot you back."

Denmark looked suspiciously around America into the box he was so desperately trying to hide, when suddenly his wrist was twisted and with a cry he dropped the gun to the floor. "_Hey!_"

"Totally not sorry!" America shouted as he picked up the gun and ran, tumbling down the attic ladder and down the staircase and out of England's house. He ran into the forest, gun flailing in his hand, before he caught sight of the familiar family of pine trees he hid behind.

Sure enough, despite Denmark's best tries, there was a small horse tucked between two trees, chocolate brown all over with a blonde mane to match. The horse was small, and when America mounted it, the tips of his feet almost reached the grass below. But it didn't matter. America had somewhere to be.

With a pat on its side, the horse rode off with incredible speed, dodging trees a lot quicker than America ever could. With the direction of _just north_ in mind, America guided the creature.

America's attention only faltered slightly when he could have sworn he saw something unusual lying curled up on its side buried in the thick grass, but he passed it off. He had to go London. He had to find England.

If only America knew he just had found England, and threw him aside like the dead thing he was. Oh, well, even if England _could_ bring himself to cry out to the American who he was sure had betrayed him, it wouldn't have mattered. In his state, he was dead to the world, at least for a few more hours.

And when England would bring himself to his feet, all shine of innocence and tears cleaned from his face like slate, he would be more powerful than anyone could have once imagined.

_France, Denmark, America... I'm coming to get you._

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**I once again apologise if Denmark is out of character, which I'm sure he very much is, but we won't really be seeing him for much longer, at least for awhile, anyway. **

**If you'd like, please give me feedback. I'd love to thank you all for reading and telling me what you think (as well as answering any questions you may have)!**


	6. Chapter 6: England's Reappearing Act

**I'm very sorry I didn't get to do this last time, so here we go: **_**a reply to my guest reviewers... **_

**Guest (first comment under the name):**** Ha-ha, I'm glad you have enough emotion with this story to even feel frustrated. XD Thank you for your review.**

**The Rambler (first comment):**** I just want to cuddle him too, his childhood is very sad (though I suppose any nations would theoretically be), and ha-ha, yes, I'm no good at Denmark, but I'm sure you're great! And thank you, I shall keep it up as best as I can!**

**Faenil (not actually a guest, but your PM function is disabled):**** Thank you! I hope this story continues to interest you – I try my best!**

**Guest (second comment under the name):**** It probably shouldn't have, but your comment made me laugh a lot! Actually, as not to spoil things too much (not that I probably directly could), do not put too little faith in America's tactics. Well, for the last chapter, at least (I've written too much)!**

**The Rambler (second comment):**** Thank you! And to fulfil that promise of 'moremoremoremoooooooore', here's the next part!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters presented in this fanfiction or Hetalia**

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"So, this is London..."

America had arrived.

At first America was clueless as he circled the edges of the gentle town, unfamiliar buildings lining the somewhat familiar landscape. In the dark of the night, sconces burned on their hooks and barely managed to illuminate anything. But as he wandered further, small horse trotting behind, he recognised the one and only thing he could even associate with London before the times of the double-decker or the phone box or anything else it seemed – the Thames. Although the name escaped him, America recognised the familiar curves immediately in the shimmering moonlight, and for once in the day, he wasn't starting to think of his whole trip as a total disaster of which he could never escape.

It was a rare occasion, but for once, America had started doubting his abilities. But that mindset was washed away as quickly as it came – he was in the right place, just as France had instructed.

However, that quickly changed with another look of the place. It was an even rarer occasion, but once more, America was starting to doubt his once questionable hope. As quickly as the doubt left, it came hurtling back, crashing into him like a tsunami. And then he was just drenched in it.

"Damn it, France, why the heck didn't you give me more of a prompt than '_London_'?" America muttered to himself as he absently dragged his fingers through his newly acquired horse's mane. The pure blonde of its mane and the mere height of the horse was in a strange way starting to remind America of the little tyke that was England. But he quickly shook the dangerous thoughts away. "Hmph, what am I thinking? He's _way _shorter than you and _way _uglier, and–"

"Does anyone actually know what that building is?"

America immediately cut his ramblings short.

"No, I don't think so. The entrance appears to be barricaded so I've heard, and nobody has tried to enter or leave."

"No one official?"

"No. It was only discovered this morning. Even if it has been a whole day, more are in favour of avoiding it. I should retire for the night; it is getting late."

Despite the impulses America was running on, the damned hell-hole he couldn't help but feel he was being sucked into, he only had the single lead, and like an obedient dog, he would stay trained to it.

America brought himself forward, standing by the two strangers whose passing conversation had long since finished. He smiled, only getting startled looks back. But it was worth the embarrassment, all the looks and stares in the world. "Hey, did you hear about that new building?"

The two America had eavesdropped on shared looks, but their reluctant eyes fell back to the man. With a point in a direction, one of the two picked up the unfortunate conversation. "Yes... The one over there..."

"Ah, thanks a lot, man!" America called as he hurried off, dragging his horse behind him which made a few grunts of protest in return, but quickly complied when the near-human strength did its worst. "I better be right about this! Heck, I'm always right!"

A part of America, somewhere in the back of his mind, stopped screaming at him for a split second to yell only one phrase, _You know that this is going to end up killing you, and this time, there'll be no one there to save you!_

America dismissed the thought that had worked his way through his fogged mind. It was nagging him just like England – with all the insistent insults, too – and that was just too dangerous a thing to keep alive. Plus, he had to think up a way in which he could dodge the metal pole about to hit him in the head.

With a smack and a crack and a black world, America was out cold. His ideas had halted him once again.

America's body was dragged through the door, and with a suspicious look of the whole perimeter by a suspiciously familiar figure, the door was swung closed with a resigned thud.

_Ah, so is life._ In fact, France was starting to have a similar thought as he felt his body be prodded all too hardly with a spiked stick.

"Ah... Don't do that..." France muttered under his breath, shifting in his unconscious sleep as he tried to cling to the last of his somewhat peaceful oblivion. "Ah... Don't–"

"You're first on my list."

France's eyes shot open. That voice was _far _too familiar for his liking. "...England?"

"Yes," England said back, a strange air of superiority hovering around him as he leaned over France with his weight on his knees, "and it looks like America has abandoned you."

France pouted. "Well, I wouldn't say _that..._"

"But it is true," England said, tightening his grip on the arrow that was starting to dig into France's wounded side, "isn't it?"

France winced as he felt his old wounds re-open and new blood pour. "Ah... Yes."

"Hmph!" England huffed, releasing his grip. "I would have thought you'd have a least a bit more dignity than to lie in the mud, caked in blood and the like, but I suppose it's all you deserve." England pushed himself up and got onto his feet, stepping away from the frowning France lying on the disturbed ground. "Well, I shall be going. I've already tied you up, and presumably from your state you won't be untying yourself any time soon." He paused, presumably thinking, before giving his full attention back to France. "Oh, and I'll be taking your horse, too."

France let out a startled cry. "N-no, don't go! I love that horse! I-it reminds me of my home town– I'm just a poor man, England! Even you aren't as tasteless to rob a man of all he has, food _or _otherwise!"

England only paid France a slither of attention once he had fully mounted the horse, patting its neck as the animal calmed. "I don't even want to know if you intended to eat this horse, but considering _you... _Well, I wouldn't put it past you." England turned to leave but paused, his brow furrowing and his eyes pointed in a glare. "Whatever your intentions, mine certainly aren't helping you, France, especially after comments like that. I never once have dealt in counter-production, and I certainly will not start here. Goodbye; pray that someone helps you, because I will be praying otherwise."

With not a word more, England slapped his horse and the two hurried off into the distance, far beyond what France could see with his bleary vision. So, just as England had suggested, France prayed. He prayed for release, victory and pain-relief, as the awful stabbing feeling in his side was not subsiding in the least. And then not a mere second later as he looked down at the clumpy mix of blood and mud caked in his apparent wound, France realised that England's arrow was still sticking out of him. And just like that, a little of the hope that praying had brought him poured out of him. But at that moment, France could only thank goodness that he was a religious country.

And also praying, that the unconscious nation in front of him would awake, was another country. The mysterious country knelt down next to the body of a tall blonde man, staring at him in worry and just praying for his closed blue eyes to open. And then, like a miracle, they did.

"America..." the country breathed, a light smile gracing their miserable face. "Thank goodness you're awake..."

America shook his head, straightening his glasses and wincing when he felt a new groove in the delicate lens. But he shook the information away; something more important was dominating his train of thought. "Wh-what... what happened, again?"

"I... I don't know." The other nation murmured, their voice barely above a whisper in their shaken state.

When America looked over the person knelt beside him as best as he could with squinted eyes and gashed glasses, their chin was painted with a splatter of dark red blood; it had dried. America shook his head, biting back a headache he could feel coming on. "What happened to you?"

The other jolted from the shock and leaned away from America, their eyes wild and erratic. "I-I-I didn't do it! We're good friends and neighbours and–"

America shook his head again. The headache was quickly deepening into a migraine with every tiny sound. "Okay, okay, and– _Oh God_, why does my head hurt _so much?_"

The other nation cleared his throat and straightened his glasses. "W-well, Russia had the idea of hitting you in the head with his metal pipe to demobilise you... I was too close to not get any blood on me..."

America groaned, running a hand through his hair and massaging his poor, aching, bruised head. "And why did he wanna do that?"

There came a light sigh from the other nation. "He thought you would try and stop them from going..."

America groaned again, letting his head fall back down to the ground. However he quickly swore and shot back up when his head hit something hard, sending another shockwave of pain through him; it was all fuel to the fire of his pounding temples. "Where... Where even am I, Canada?"

"This is the meeting room," the other nation, Canada, explained quietly, "the one you left this morning... I never left but, well, the others did."

America frowned and slowly lied himself back down with his fingers intertwined and his palms behind his head, arms bent and stretched. It was little comfort. "There are more of you? Why'd they leave?"

Canada fidgeted slightly. "W-well, I was supposed to stand guard, but I think they forgot about me." A sheepish shrug later and he continued. "It was a group decision to leave, so Germany, Japan, Italy, Russia, and France–"

"_France?_" America yelled as he sat bolt upright. "B-but that's not possible! I saw France earlier and he was all short and dying and _dead _and..."

Canada cleared his throat after a long pause and prepared himself to speak. "Y-yes, well, whilst I'm sure that you'd never lie, he left, perfectly okay and at the proper height."

America shook his head. "Okay, well, if _that _happened, then it means that all sorts of crazy paradox shit is about to go down, and I don't really need _that _to happen, either." Whilst Canada stared at America in confusion, America just shook his head more and, after a dignified pause, got to his feet. "Look, I need to go. When did they leave and where in hell were they even going?"

Canada seemed reluctant, but he complied. "They were on their way out when you came to the door... I think they said they were going to England's house to look for you both, and they must have left an hour ago–"

"Thanks, bro! Talk a bit faster next time!" America shouted as he bolted through the door and slammed it in Canada's face with a loud bang.

Canada shrank back, the startled look slowly relaxing off of his face, and he busied himself by sitting down on a plush chair that was barely tucked into the long, wooden meeting table. He would wait. He would wait for something. _Or something would wait for him. _

As America ran onto the dusty streets and jumped onto his chocolate brown horse – now a much darker shade in the coverage of the midnight moonlight – he surveyed his surroundings one last time. He could have sworn he saw something move, his mind told him it was something sinister, but he let the thought pass. He had to find his friends – some of the most powerful countries in the world – and if he didn't, America didn't want to imagine the consequences.

It was only as the clop of hooves on firm ground started to soften did England appear. He was hiding at the forest's edge – it was as far as he decided to return to after his visit into town. He still had a nasty limp from his fall, but he was beginning to work strength back into his leg. But in the end, he wouldn't let something as simple as a swollen ankle to cut his goals short.

England had to build his country until it mirrored his own strength, the strength every nation has – powerful ones especially. And if England was ever going to be a powerful nation, it was only basic to eliminate enemies. Enemies who want you alive or dead.

And just as England let his thoughts wash over him, a blur of a horse and its rider rushed past him like a flash of lightning. It was a wonderful thing that England had set a trap with stray rope he found at the docks. It was a wonderful thing when the horse's legs slammed into the long hurdle of rope and stopped, sending the horse stumbling and the rider flinging to the ground with a cry of pain. It was, however, a _less _than wonderful thing when England examined the rider, turning their body over with the last of his strength to get a look at their face, their dirty blonde hair, their struggling blue eyes, the now smashed set of glass that lay askew on the ground beside him. _America. _

_America. America, America, America. _America.

The body lying, groaning, and falling limp was America.

It took England another second to realise something. _America's on my list. _

It took England no time at all to do something he had been meaning to do for a long time coming. _Stab._

* * *

**Hint for next chapter: not everything is what it seems. **


	7. Chapter 7: England's Confusion

** Sora Resi: I cannot remember if I sent you a reply or not to your mail... But, if I didn't, I'd just like to say that I feel the same way, and am glad I made you feel sadness for the characters (I don't give normal responses, clearly). **

** The Rambled(Rambler?): I'm sorry if I have confused you loads, but it was meant to be quite mysterious (but not quite mind-boggling...)**

** Guest: Thank you very much! Your support means a lot to me.**

**So, here to answer some of those unanswered questions, is the next chapter.**

**NOTE:**** Yeah, I lied, this is supposed to be as confusing as hell. It will all clear up next chapter!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters presented in this fanfiction or Hetalia**

**(EDIT: I have now actually included scene breaks... XD)**

* * *

America shot up with a cry of pain. The gun he was holding from England's attic had flung off somewhere. His now empty hands moved to his stomach – there was an agonising ache deep inside, his skin tingling on the surface and smeared with something that felt thick, like _blood. _

America looked down in horror.

England looked up in surprise.

America's mouth quivered as he tried to make sense of things in the blurry darkness. "W-w-w-what have you–?"

England sighed, the sound strangely heavy for his small body and frame, let alone his round face as just an aging child, but it silenced the panicked American nonetheless. "I... I trapped you with a rope. I set it around the tree trunks. Your horse went into it and you fell, but..."

America swallowed. "But...?"

"But I'm not sure," England said with a frown as a line of light glinted beside him, moving with the twisting of his hands, "I'm not sure if I can kill you..."

America felt his throat constrict and his eyes widen, frantically trying to pick out anything in the pitch-black dark. "N-no– I-I mean, that's great! You shouldn't kill people because that's bad and didn't your mom ever tell you that and also you can't kill a nation–!"

"_Stop._" England demanded and America quickly shut up with a laugh that seamlessly just rolled out of the back of his tight throat. "I wasn't quite finished. I'm not sure if I can kill you... just yet."

"O-oh," America gulped, a hand reaching behind him to rub at his neck, "well, what can I do for you, then?"

England seemed to pause to think. His eyes drifted back to the glinting shape in the darkness below him. "I'm not so sure. Perhaps you should find Denmark, and if you betray me, I'll kill you then. Agreed?"

_I seem to be making a lot of these deals lately_, America thought but bit it back. "Sure," he agreed, putting both of his palms flat-out behind him as he propped himself up more comfortably, "but what's in it for me?"

England snorted. "You live. Is that not good enough?"

And then it was America's turn to snort. "Well, dude, you're about twelve years old. I doubt you could even lay a scratch on me."

Shaking his head, England brought the glinting object closer. "You and your big mouth..."

The knife went down.

"_I thought we had a deal!_" America yelled as he jolted back a few feet, landing on his bruised rump with a thud and a heavy pant. "_What happened to that?_"

The frozen shocked look on England's face eased off with a boiling temper, a dark frown. "I was cutting _the rope._" He got to his feet, a long trail of thick rope itching his hands. "Now you're free... just, just don't leave, okay?"

America's heaving chest relaxed and he studied himself. He lifted up his shirt, examining the ache he felt under his skin, only to find a line of slowly forming bruises roping around his stomach. He exhaled. "Okay, okay, sure, I'll stay with you."

England shifted his weight, wincing as the pressure weighted on his injured ankle. "Is that a promise, America?"

America paused, but only for a second. "Yes. I promise."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, America knew that he had just signed a contract under a false identity.

* * *

As Germany crossed through the forest, he heard a suspicious _crack. _

"W-what was that?" Italy murmured, his feet stumbling as he fell into Germany's side.

Germany huffed, steadying his shorter ally until he was right on his feet again. "I don't know, but whatever you do, just stay calm, and–"

"_Ah! He's got a gun!_"

And before the group knew it, someone was down on the ground.

* * *

"So, you are sure that the Viking is this way?" England asked as he leant on the back of the horse he rode on – the same chocolate brown that was America's, once Denmark's – weaving in between thick grass and dense forest. "If you do not follow our deal, I–"

"Yeah, yeah, he's this way," America nodded as he trailed beside England, his hand rested on the side of the horse's neck, "I let him into... erm, never mind."

England shot America a sceptical look but hesitantly let his gaze wander forward, his hopes set high in his journey. Or at least the outcome. "Good, good... America, I'd like to ask you something–"

"We're here!" America announced, and England could only frown. "What? I let your lazy ass have my horse! It's not my fault you're so stubborn."

England shook his head and groaned. "It's not that you fool, I–"

"_Get down!_"

Before anyone knew what was happening, England felt the weight shift beneath him with a violent jolt and he slammed into the ground with a cry. He heard the loud slaps of hooves against the ground which quickly faded into the distance. Somewhere beside him, England could hear something shifting – America, he presumed, as the sound came closer.

Before England could make any further assumptions as his body stiffened when a heavy arm landed over him, pulling his body backwards, there was another cry. "_France!_"

England's brow furrowed, he realised. _France? _He had tied France up, left him for dead. He of course knew somewhere in the back of his mind that France would escape. He knew, yet he didn't know why. It could have been strength, will, or just the pure nature of a country – but, there was something tied to England, as if it was – or it should have been – fate.

But England had more pressing issues to even regard than that. Because before he knew it, glinting in the moonlight, was the shape of something round. Something America would later tell him was the barrel of a gun, firmly held in the grip of a Viking.

* * *

_Several hours previous..._

Denmark leapt forward, eyeing the figure that was bounding down the ladder with an orange gun flailing in his grasp. He went to follow him, ever eager, but something else caught his eye.

Back by the edge of the room, where the man with the gun had originally retrieved the weapon, was an equally shiny weapon of the same shape and size. Denmark let himself smile. If this sort of magical, foreign technology was hiding in the room, what _other _secrets did it have?

Picking up another gun, Denmark spun around, eyeing stacks upon stacks of boxes, lining every wall and scattering almost every inch of the floor. He walked up to the closest one and rooted through it, eyeing garment upon object upon paper upon machine he had never seen in his life!

Denmark felt his smile grow wider. Whatever he had found, he was rich in it. And when he was rich in the unknown, he knew he only needed one person to talk to.

* * *

"_America!_"

America looked up on instinct at the call of his name. His eyes darted around him, falling on England, who he pulled even closer to his chest; the boy's back pressed tightly to him, even though he began to squirm. America feared the worst – he tried to know so much, but honestly, he was still lost in whatever world he was in – it might as well have been another universe for all the good it brought him! But he had England, and considering that's where his feet stayed rooted and his heart pumped, that's all he needed.

"Ah-_merh -_rica!" the voice called again, each syllable of the word stretching out unnecessarily long. "America? Hm, I'm sure that's his name..."

"_Am–!_" England began to call but he was shut up when a heavy hand slapped down on his mouth. England continued to struggle against America's hold and eventually settled for kicking him in the groin from the awkward position he was in, wildly throwing his leg back.

America cried out and let go of England for just enough time for him to escape.

"_Yah!_" England shouted as he rushed forward, finding an arrow still hooked into a strap on his back he pulled it out along with his bow and let loose the arrow. It flew through the air and suddenly there was a cry of pain. "Got you, you evil Viki–!"

But what greeted England was something all more shocking than the Dane on the floor, clutching at his knee which an arrow stuck painfully into.

"Great job, Germany, I never knew you had a bow and arrow!"

"Of course I don't! That wasn't–"

"Who is that ugly little girl staring at us?"

England, of course, stared back.

* * *

"I... I don't think that's a girl..." someone muttered among the group, and when most of the heads turned, they saw Japan talking quietly. Perhaps in disbelief.

"Oh, no, I was wrong." France corrected in return as he eyed the shadowed figure some distance in front of him. "Ah, well, whoever the little tyke is, he saved me from Denmark!"

"Mm, how fortunate." Russia commented somewhere in the back, his smile warming his face despite the cold air. "Too bad little Italy dropped to the ground when you screamed."

Italy jumped at the sudden sound. "_Wah!_ It was scary–"

"_Everyone shut up!_" Germany shouted, his shouts echoing through the eerily silent forest. That was, of course, apart from the quiet groans from the Dane on the ground. "Look, I think–"

"_France?_"

And suddenly all eyes went to the figure approaching from the ground, their glasses shaken, their eyes erratic. France responded first. "...America?"

"Yeah!" America shouted back as he walked up to England, hanging by his side. "Look, I think we need to talk before we run into a _hell _of a lot of trouble, okay?"

Without much notice, the shorter body beside America began to tremble. With sadness? Confusion? Anger? _Betrayal? _So many thoughts ran through his head, but before he got a chance to even place his next move, it was swept away from him.

"Is this... _Angleterre?_" France asked as he took a step forward, only prompting the country in question to take a step back. "As rude as ever, I see. Oh, and America, I see your promise of '_he's sick_' was a lie, mm? And that of calling me before you do anything else–"

"_Stay back!_" England cried, fear racking his whole frame as he leaped away from France, and after some debate, America. "I-I-I killed you! W-why are you suddenly taller? W-what _is_ this...?"

At that point in time, there wasn't a nation who wasn't passing glances between each other, some longer than others, some intense stares. However, there was one phrase that was said once more that not a single one didn't even agree on a little – "I think we should _really _have a talk."

* * *

**This chapter is a little confusing, but the next chapter is the one with all – or at least some of – the important answers. I hope you keep reading (and this becomes less confusing)!**


	8. Chapter 8: England's Truth

**This is the chapter with the answers! ****(Plus I apologise for the fact England seemed to keep acting 2P last chapter or just recently, or at least in my mind)**

** The Rambler: Yes, so my expectations for 'the answers' chapter went out of the window completely for last chapter, but don't worry: **_**this is 'the answers' chapter (I hope **_**this **_**one makes some sense).**_

** Faenil: Yup, indeed. This is that chapter, and I am happy that you are excited for it!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters presented in this fanfiction or Hetalia**

* * *

The now re-united group had decided to make stop for the night – it was nearing the early hours of the morning by the time they had agreed to set off, but still, a safe stop away from all the confusion and dread they had been facing for the last two gruelling days had by far been enough. However, the distraught didn't end when America decided upon making camp at England's house.

The place was trashed, furniture thrown aside and ornaments smashed so carelessly it was almost heartbreaking to see; something so fragile so easily destroyed, but England wasn't exactly in the right mindset to give much of a damn – instead, he was seeking something as much as everyone else who decided to gather in the dining room.

Everyone wanted _answers. _

All eyes darted to each other. They were waiting for someone to start first, but nobody even dared. With a sigh, however, Germany decided enough was enough as he rose above the others from his seat, the crude scraping of wooden chair legs on the polished floor enough to make all eyes snap to him. He cleared his throat.

"Let's start off from what we know," Germany began as he began to lower himself to his chair again, bringing it closer to the table, "so, first of all, America left the meeting room to go and find England."

"Yeah." America agreed, and all eyes wandered between the loud man talking and the quiet, frowning boy sat beside him, both of which couldn't keep still. "I went to his house as normal. Nothing out of the ordinary, the door was locked and everything, but then England wouldn't answer me when I tried to call out to him, so I wandered about and then... Well, take a look for yourself."

Every gaze moved to England, whose cheeks darkened and brow creased further under the intense watchful eyes. "So," Germany picked up again, "he was a child?"

America paused, but shook his head slowly from side to side. "No, well, he was, but he was _way_ littler before, like a toddler or younger, even." Germany looked astounded, as did everyone else in the room, but all eyes were quickly on America again as he continued. "Well, anyway, he didn't have a clue who I was and then I got a call from France and–"

"And then I called," France continued and America squawked, "and I was worried, obviously. 'e said something was wrong with England, and then I asked what, and–"

"And then you kept harassing me about why and how and all that crap!" America picked up again with a pout and a frown. "What was your deal, anyway? Don't you trust me with England?"

France shook his head from side to side. "No, America, you have to understand – while I think your caring-for-the-ill skills are atrocious, there was a more pressing matter at hand, hm?"

While America was about to speak up, Germany sighed and continued himself. "Yes. You see, America, when we looked out of the windows in the conference room, everything looked... completely different, older... like it does now."

"Oh..." America muttered after some time, his gaze having fallen to his lap. "Well, England wanted to do something dumb like go hunting in the forest, and after we went in the attic and got all his itty-bitty gear ready and I looked outside, I was greeted by pretty much the same thing."

England huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, while Germany nodded in agreement. "I see..."

There was a unified pause as everyone gathered their thoughts, before, surprisingly, England shuffled on his chair himself, drawing everyone's attention almost immediately. "I... I injured America and ran away because he was going to attack me, and then I entered the forest. I suppose he ran after me..." England let his words drift off as his narrowed eyes suddenly shot to France, who's widened in return. "And then _that _over there can tell you the rest of the story!"

Expectably, expectantly, and with perhaps a slight touch of confusion, all eyes drifted to France, who held his hands up in surrender. "Hey, I did nothing! I was in the meeting room like everyone else, _oui?_"

It took time, but everyone agreed with a nod, and with England gawking at them all and pushing the chair away from the table as he got up to leave with a tight throat, America quickly gripped him by the shoulder and sat him back down. America sighed, and England felt his gaze harden and his knuckles turn white. "No," America said, "that wasn't _that _France, it was another one."

And then the room fell well and truly silent.

"There... _What?_" England said suddenly, his eyes as wide as the moon that illuminated his pale, shaking form, his gaze completely trained on America who stared back. "H-how do you know?"

America was about to explain as he inhaled sharply, but suddenly he breathed it back out again. He took another breath. "France was picking on this little guy, but then he left. It was all a joke to him." In the silence between his words, England shot a disgusted look at France, but then looked down at his lap again. "We had a talk– I-I mean, well, we just left and I set off to get us some food." England looked to America hopefully, remembering the admittedly comforting conversation about aging, and silently thanked the man. "Anyway, Denmark showed up and–"

"America..." England said quietly, his eyes working their way up to the blue eyes that stared down at him, slightly rounded. "There was something I didn't really tell you then... When you interrupted the battle, something felt weird, like I knew it wasn't supposed to be that way."

"Are you sure it wasn't just the adrenaline pumping?"

England shook his head. "No, it... it really _wasn't _just that."

When no one dared continue, all eyes aimlessly wandered the room. America's fell to a smashed plate on the floor before he finally turned around again to the sound of France's unusually quiet voice. "Wait... _Mon Dieu! _I think I know when we are! Back many centuries... perhaps around the eleventh, it was, that crisis was raging in England, over power struggles and war, but it was several more later that I stepped into the picture..."

America gulped. "And it only took him awhile to age so quickly..."

France and America locked worried gazes across the table. "And," France was eager to add, "I wasn't of significance before Denmark was around."

At that, with some sinister thoughts at mind, every nation gulped in unison. All except one.

"B-but what does this all mean?" Italy practically yelled, his hands waving erratically in the air.

It was with a sigh that France relayed the deadly truth, his eyes still locked unwaveringly onto America's from across the way. "It means, Italy, that somehow we have altered this history... And I do not even want to imagine what this means..."

America shook his head, his eyes closing in grief. "B-b-but what did I do? The only thing I did before you showed up for the first time was meet him in his _own house!_"

Suddenly, there was a hearty chuckle from across the room. It only was successful in ringing eerie. "Ah, America, don't you see? Do not tell me you are this out of your depths. You went into his attic, remember, silly?"

With some hesitation, Japan joined. "And you were using modern technology..."

"And you were calling _France_, America." Germany finally said. His eyes reached up, his intense ice gaze freezing on America's, sending a chill down his spine. "What did England say?"

"I-I-I..." America stuttered, feeling his blood run cold as his memory strained and lurched back. "I-I-I–"

"...I asked him if we were friends or enemies."

All eyes fell to the floor at England's confession. Only Russia had the will to continue. "And then, what did America reply?"

America gulped. "I... I said 'for the most part'."

And the final piece of the puzzle fell into place.

* * *

Canada sighed. It seemed, once again, he had been forgotten about, left alone in a place he couldn't leave. The sun was barely rising over the horizon by the early hours – it didn't matter, the thick blinds were drawn in the meeting room, cutting off Canada's attachment to anything or anyone but his poor, lonely self.

Honestly, when it all boiled down to it, Canada was growing weary and close to frustrated. He liked to think of himself sometimes as a ticking time bomb, a gauge topping up and up until he was about to crack, but with a limit; a level-headed, kind soul with the patience of a saint. _But they're coming back_, Canada thought with a light smile playing on his face. _They didn't forget about me. No, they _couldn't _have forgotten about me, I'm Canada!_

But, in the back of his mind, as all the times before, Canada knew he was wrong. He _always _was.

_Sigh. _Canada rose from his chair, tucking it nicely into the table before he strolled across the red carpet, brushing his hand lightly against the entrance and exit door.

He could do it, you know. He could leave; if the others couldn't see him, couldn't sense him, didn't _care _about him, then what was the harm? Yes, that was right, there _was _no harm. He was harmless, untouchable, unthinkable. Unmentioned Canada. In that exact moment, invisibility was his best magic trick.

But as he pushed open the conference door, he quickly realised, with his modern business suit about to be thrown to the floor, he was far from correct – he _always _was.

* * *

"I... I don't understand." England muttered quietly, the crease in his brow only growing, but his held back anger had since boiled away. Now, he was solemn, confused as one could be. "I... I don't know what you're talking about."

Germany sighed, trying to put on his best smile as he turned to England in an attempt to be comforting. "It's confusing, we understand." _They think I'm just a child_, England thought solemnly,_ don't they? _"We're from the twenty-first century, England." _...They... Why do they lie to me? They can't expect me to believe– _"We have made a theory." _...Why do they keep excluding me like this? I'm the one living in their stupid theories, the source of their ideas, I– _"Basically, America has somehow convinced you to test his friendship, or your adult mind could just be relaying memories of France and playing them back to you after the mention of him when America was talking to him... We aren't entirely sure, England." _...They don't even know what they're talking about... Fools, the lot of them. I don't–_

"It's okay if you don't understand." America reassured, a beaming smile on his face, his face almost completely loss of all lines of worry. "But we've somehow gotta fix this mess!" If he had any demeaning insults, they were left absent, too. England wasn't quite sure what he expected when he thought about it.

With a resolute nod, England spoke. "Okay, I..." _I don't know if I can say it, but, I think I trust... _"I believe you."

America smiled. England couldn't help but feel a little guilt swell in him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the front of his mind perhaps, England knew that he had just signed a contract under a false identity, too. Perhaps, just perhaps, it was his older self calling out to him, telling him he could trust those people. Telling him he _did _trust those people.

Perhaps it was only reasonable that he snorted at the idea. _Yeah, as if..._

* * *

In the remaining time whilst the countries wandered the house, their plan to have their peace until morning, several countries gave themselves their own jobs.

Most of the time was, for once, occupied with work. There was little a fight when Germany suggested they figure out how to escape whatever fiction or reality they had miraculously ended up in – and he wasn't the only one.

However, since England declared he needed a break, the discussion was since dwindling. That was half an hour ago.

England wandered the halls of the house he was supposed to remember in perhaps a few hundred years – possibly even a thousand. With the time to himself well-spent, he was starting to consider everything that had been once again washed through his mind by strangers and friends and enemies and all sorts of nations he did and was supposed to know. Except, even if he did know them, they were _not _the same. Or, at least, they didn't consider themselves to be.

England let himself heave a sigh again as he stopped walking. Supposedly, this was indeed his house. It did seem likely; it was in his country, after all, but aside from that minor detail, there wasn't much to it. He had walked past several living quarters, all lavish with strangely shaped, coloured and sized things scattered. One of which was the strange device America was using at the beginning of his waking at the house.

Another sigh. England carried on walking. Much of 'his' objects had been battered; his only suspect in mind was either the ridiculous France or the merciless Viking – either way, it made little difference, because he wasn't alone now. Many adults were protecting him. Many allies... Many enemies.

_America. _

As if on time, the man came down from the ladder still leading to the exposed attic. In his hands was a single box, filled to the brim with stacks of paper and other useless rubbish from what England could gather. Another part of him told him that wasn't true. One side told him that part was future England. The other side reminded him that people don't store things in their attic for no reason at all.

Another sigh. A tired gaze. "America..."

"Oh, hi, I didn't see you there, really." America said somewhat absently as he chucked the box to the floor, closing the hatch to the ladder. "Can I help you?"

England didn't move his mouth, only his eyes as they fell to the box. He wasn't entirely curious, though. "I..."

"Oh, hey, err, tell me later, will you? I've gotta do something quickly." America said as he made his way down the stairs again, leaving the box obliviously to the centre-side of the landing floor.

England reached forward, picking up the box as he eyed it suspiciously. "What an idiot," he muttered as he set it down again, resting his hand on his hip, "leaving this here..."

And just like that, England felt his mind explode.

* * *

**More of the reveal soon! Plus, what happens to England and what's in the box, and what's going on with Canada (I suppose that **_**is **_**the reveal, huh)? **

**All to come next time. Thanks for reading! (This is drawing to a close soon – probably a good few chapters left, some fluff insured I can tell you, and perhaps some angst to end it all... And then fluff. Or angst. You'll just have to wait and see.)**


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